


The Lucky Ones

by sirenlungs



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:41:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 44,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3503768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenlungs/pseuds/sirenlungs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a stint at a rehab, torrid wild-child actress Emma Swan seeks to rebuild her public image. Unfortunately, her only option is to fake a relationship with Rolly Jogers' problematic front-man Killian Jones, whom incidentally can't stand her any more than she can stand him. Warning: attempted suicide language!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter One- Time Bomb

Have you ever felt like people are treating you like a ticking time bomb? How everyone hesitates when they try to formulate their words? How they hesitate in their way of addressing you? As if they’re trying to make sure that you are not going go off, that it won’t be their fault that whatever messed up, fucked up problem you have, it won’t be triggered by them.   
Lately, that’s all I’ve been feeling.   
But I guess that it should be a given when it’s been a week since you’ve been released from rehab after your ex-boyfriend decided to use your fame to climb up the social ladder, find out that he cheated on you for a good three of the five years you were together, and you decide it’s high time to go off on a life-tangent. A life tangent that was more of a “fall down the rabbit hole” than anything else.   
To make the story short, my already depressive self decided to go on an alcohol binge which in turn led to a drug binge, that led to weeks upon weeks of staying in bed, intoxicated, stoned, and morbidly depressed. All these roads led to me being involuntarily committed to one of SoCal’s best rehabilitation facilities after my friend and publicist Mary Margaret practically knocked down the front door to my penthouse apartment only to find me in the tub a bottle of sleeping pills just dropped from my hand.  
Passed out, virtually lifeless. That kind of shit happens when the only person you’ve ever really loved, really trusted, chooses to tell you how utterly worthless he thinks you really are.   
It’s all over the tabloids. Finally, they get something right.   
I guess I’d rather people treat me like a ticking time bomb, that would mean that they are no longer treating me like Emma Swan, the troubled ex-child star who now parties too much instead of focusing in what her illustrious career could really become.  
Though, I’d rather they treat me like a troubled, uninhibited actress than with pity. I’ve never cared for pity. When you’re adopted and your adoptive mother (the only one who ever really cared for me, really) dies of breast-cancer when you’re thirteen, pity is all you get. So, in the grand scheme of things, ticking time bomb trumps wild-child actress, trumps pity on any given day.   
I don’t really remember much of what happened after Neal left. My ex-boyfriend, if you were wondering. I remember fighting for months and months leading up to him leaving. I remember finding out that he was seeing someone else. I remember crying, I cried a lot actually. I remember begging for him to stay, he had become such a constant in my life, such a—what I thought—permanent fixture in my life that I couldn’t imagine a world without him in it. And then he told me he was just using me. He was using my fame (or infamy if you’d rather) for his own gain. He told me he didn’t care for me anymore, that he had been trying to figure out a way to get out of this relationship without hindering my sanity, my feelings too much. He had, and I quote, “gotten tired of trying to fix me.” He told me that I had brought him with me down this whirlwind life of chaos, of excess, of despair. He told me that it wasn’t until he met Tamara that he felt like a weight was lifted off his shoulders, that he could finally breathe with ease. Being with her, he said, was so easy and life with me had become basically unbearable. It was heavy, distraught, dazed, and confusing.   
It wasn’t what he wanted.  
I wasn’t what he wanted.  
And then he left. As I said, I don’t remember much after that. If I slept, it was because of painkillers; if I ate, it was because I had the munchies; and if I breathe it’s because Mary Margaret found me right in the nick of time.   
And for that I am truly thankful. The first few days at the Betty Ford Center had been hard, especially because I wanted nothing with being there.   
I was fine.   
You know, aside from trying to kill myself. I was fine. My stomach, however, was in terrible shape and was probably incredibly bruised from being pumped and I suffered from intense withdrawals from oxytocin. It took me weeks, well actually six months, to get myself together.   
To feel better I had to try to be better and that was something that I hadn’t been doing in a long time. I didn’t completely learn that I wasn’t worthless, that kind of deeply rooted behavior was going to take time to unlearn, but after six months they thought I was good to go.  
And now here I am, for some reason in a record studio one week after being released. I doubt that I’m here to record a best selling album, considering I can’t sing for shit, but Mary Margaret is here on business so it’s definitely something about my public image. I had told her that I wanted to get out there, that I wanted to act. I was good at it, it kept me busy, and it kept me alive.   
So here we are, I’m guessing to revive my story as that of the prodigal daughter that had fallen from grace coming back to regain her rightful place in the public eye as America’s former sweetheart.   
“Emma.” Mary Margaret starts tentatively as if I were about to jump off a ledge at any second. It kind of amuses me, actually.   
“Are you going to tell me why we’re here, Mags?” I ask her, smiling reassuringly. I keep telling her that I’m okay, but she has a hard time believing me. But who wouldn’t, considering how she found me?  
“Yes. Look, I know that you want to get back into the game but unfortunately all the offers you had months ago have kind of evaporated completely. Your stint at Betty Ford doesn’t really make you a desirable talent to work with for most studios.” She tells me, eyes wide and fearful, afraid that this news would make me too upset to handle. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy to get back in the game, my public image isn’t favorable nowadays. I’m Britney in 2007. I’m “what is she going to do next”? I’m a time bomb.   
“I know my public image is shit right now. Please, don’t tell me that I’m about to become a recording artist though, you know I can’t sing.” I laugh, I cannot hold a tune to save my life.   
“No, that’s not why we’re here.” Mary Margaret tells me, cracking the first genuine smile I’ve seen in months.  
“Then why are we here?” I ask her, rolling my eyes. Mary Margaret comes and sits next to me in the conference room we were in. Whatever we’re here for, it’s a meeting with at least two more people.   
“Well, management has a proposition for you, to clear up your image.” She tells me plainly, before quickly replying to a message on her BlackBerry. Why publicists still use BlackBerrys will always perplex me. Aren’t they dead technology?   
“I’m all ears.” I tell her, actually completely open to whatever proposition management is willing to give me. She smiles methodically as she pulls a folder from her tan Birkin bag.   
“They think that if the public sees you in a stable relationship, regaining your stability really, you’d be a more favorable asset to production companies.” She tells me, reading from the letter before showing it to me. I look over it, clearly understanding that for my public image to look better and for me to get better acting gigs (or any, really) I was going to have to put on—literally—the performance of my life.  
“So…we’re doing the fake dating thing, then?” I ask her plainly.   
“Basically.” She nods.   
Well, this wouldn’t be terrible. Usually they pair people up with up-and-coming actors, who are generally extremely good-looking and looking for a bump up from the C-list. Mostly, they’re kind of empty in the head so I never have to put that much effort into the conversation, just pucker my lips and make sure paps get good pictures of us.   
Easy enough.  
“Who with?” I ask her, intrigued at the identity of the Nameless Wonder I’ll have to be kissing for the next couple of months.   
“Killian Jones.”  
Oh, fuck no, I think as I choke on my Starbuck latte. The history I have with Killian Jones is not a good one.  
“Absolutely not.” I say forcefully, making Mary Margaret wince at my tone. She shakes her head and looks at me dead on, total publicist mode at the ready.  
“It’s either this or community theater in a nameless town, Emma.” She replies curtly. She gives me the look publicists tend to give, the “there’s nothing I can do with this” look, the “take it or leave it” look.  
I hated that look.  
Not more than I hated Killian Jones though.  
“Mags, there must be something else you can do!”   
“Emma, do you know how much I had to plead to get them to even consider keeping you in their artist repertoire? I told them I could make you get a big budget movie by the end of the year because I can make you look desirable to the production companies. I owe David Nolan a favor, he’s having trouble with Jones and this is the best we could come up with.”  
There it is, David Nolan. Of course he’s the only reason we’re doing this. Mary Margaret and David have the worst sexual tension that I’ve ever seen (or perhaps the best?). David is the manager of the Rolly Jogers, the band whose front-man just happens to be Killian Jones, self-proclaimed bad-boy extraordinaire and sex-symbol. Emma had the misfortune of meeting him during a taping of the Tonight Show two years ago. She had been promoting her latest movie and to say he had been a chauvinistic asshole was putting it mildly.  
“Except there’s one problem Mags, I hate him. I cannot stand Killian Jones.” I tell her firmly, crossing my arms against my chest.   
“Well, I don’t particularly fancy you either, love. Alas, here we are.” The devil himself says entering the threshold to the conference room, coming up to sit next to me.   
“Hello, lover.” He grins wickedly, licking his lips in an almost profane way, and winking at me. I roll my eyes in evident distaste and suddenly, I feel like clicking my heels and thinking of home and by home, I mean the Betty Ford Center.


	2. Chapter Two- Intervention

A/N: I’m switching POVs from now on. I hope you like it!

Chapter Two- Intervention

I wake with the worst headache I have ever had, dim recollections of the night before, and a stranger’s arm lazily draped across my midriff. It takes me a couple of minutes to realize where I am, the posh room decorations hardly triggering any memories of where I spent my previous night. I take a look at the mistake lying next to me—brunette, go figure, they always spell trouble—gingerly taking her arm off my midsection, so as to not to wake her. I rummage the hotel suite for a glass of water and alka seltzer—it became quite obvious that I spent the night at a hotel once I managed to get the room to stop spinning and had a look at complimentary stationary indicating that I was staying at the Mondrian Hotel in Beverly Hills—and it also became clear as I walked with my empty glass towards the bathroom, stepping over seemingly lifeless bodies of people I don’t really know, wine stains on the white sofa, and the soil strewn across the floor from an overturned potted plant, that last night I had trashed said hotel room.

David is going to kill me.

There are two people sleeping in the Jacuzzi tub as I enter the bathroom and take a look at myself in the mirror. I see red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes accompanied by purple-tinged bags underneath them, making my skin look sickly and pale.

I look like absolute shite.

I take the seltzer and head back up to the bedroom where I scramble to find my belongings and head out to check out of the hotel. I tell the woman to put whatever damages on my tab and to kick out the people inside as soon as possible. I don’t know them, nor do I really care for them.

It’s noon when David calls me, angry and frustrated from what I can tell. He tells me to meet him at his office and I go, even though all I want to do is sleep for fifteen more hours.

I think nothing of it obviously, thinking that he’s probably going to reprimand me for some small little trifle I did, like putting my foot in my mouth during last week’s interview, or flipping some paparazzi off on my way out of the restaurant I was at three days ago.

Either way, I don’t exactly care.

Walking inside David’s office, however, he and the added presence of my band mates, my brother, Liam, Robin, Graham, and Will meet me—neither of whom look particularly happy to see me.

“Take a seat, Killian.” David says sternly, pointing at the seat right in front of him. Nobody else dares to speak or even make eye contact with me. If I do meet someone’s gaze, it’s a glare and there is not a reassuring smile in sight. No, they are not happy to see me at all.

“What’s going on, mate?” I say cracking a smile as I take a seat in front of him, trying to lighten up the mood in here.

“Killian, I’m afraid we have a problem.” David continues, his arms crossed against his chest. What the hell did I do now? I could be sleeping, I tought I was called here for something important.

“There usually is.” I reply coolly, making my band mates groan.

“This is serious, little brother.” Liam replies somberly next to me.

“Younger brother, Liam. Also, I’ve never heard of a problem not being a serious problem when it comes to us, so what is it?” I cannot blame Liam for being so bloody serious about all of this. He always has been so forthright it’s positively sickening. He’s quite older than me, so naturally when our father passed he felt the need to be my father figure.

“The label isn’t happy with us, Killian.” Robin exclaims exasperatedly, clearly peeved by my nonchalance. I just don’t see what is the big deal. We’ve gotten in trouble before, we’ve had the label mad at us before, and yet we’ve always pulled through. Always.

“They usually aren’t.” Crossing my arms behind my neck as I replied probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do. I could see Robin trying to restrain Will away from me.

“They’re fed up with you, you bloody git and so are we for that matter!” he exclaims raising his hands in surrender and brushing his hands down his crumpled shirt once Robin lets go of him.

“Don’t you care about this, Killian? We all started this together and you just stopped caring!” I guess Robin was right, when the Rolly Jogers started it was a distraction for us, a way to cope with our hopes and dreams that were seemingly so far-fetched as we strived through uni together. Then that silly distraction started getting attraction and we were booking gigs all throughout London. It was in one of those gigs that we were discovered by David who talked about Enchanted Forest Records, a small independent subsidiary of Royal Records, and the next thing we knew we were signing a record deal for five records and recording our first extended play. We had had our fallouts throughout the years but it was never too serious to warrant these kinds of conversations, we’d talk it out and move on, keeping it together for the sake of the band and the bond that had brought us this far. But, apparently I had stopped ‘caring’—or whatever that means—to be honest, I had been going through some personal issues, what with my fiancée having walked out on me mid-engagement with some Hollywood hotshot, changing the locks on our apartment, and leaving me out in the cold.

But that’s a story for another day.

“One lass walks out on you and it’s the end of the world for us.” Unless my lovely older brother decides to bring it up like he has now. Bloody prat.

“Do not bring Milah into this, alright? This is horrible enough without her memory lurking about.” I say forcefully, glaring at Liam. He looks sheepishly and mumbles an apology at me. “I just don’t understand what’s wrong, it’s always been this way. We’re mates, all of us.” I tell them. Sure, I’ve gone out with countless nameless models. Hell, I’ve gone through most on the Victoria’s Secret catalogue if I’m being perfectly honest. And yes, maybe I got arrested for public indecency and charged with public misconduct two months ago. But to be fair, I was still tragically hurt by my ex-fiancée’s departure.

You might argue that it’s not a valid excuse anymore, seeing as our fallout happened a little over a year ago.

I’ll have to raise the more convincing argument of nothing being nuance in matters of the heart, and a broken heart at that.

“No it hasn’t, Killian and the truth is, being associated with you, your drunkenness, your tabloid mishaps, trashing hotel rooms—just your entire behavior—it’s not beneficial for the band, for us. You may have stopped caring, but we didn’t.” Here we go again with this “lack of caring” business. I’ve never stopped caring about the band. It’s just that I’ve had more pressing matters to attend to. Like fucking my way out of this abysmal depression I have been in for the past twelve bloody months. I’d love to see them react to having their heart completely ripped out off their ribcage, still pounding and have the person they love most in the world squeeze the life out of it until it turns to dust. Then they’ll really understand why I’m “not caring.” If they can’t see that all I’ve been doing is just a way to dull the ache in my soul, then maybe it’s time we part ways.

Except, I don’t want to part ways. This is what I do. This is what I’m best at and I hope they see that what I’ve been doing hasn’t been to spite them, or fuck them over.

I just can’t help it.

“So what, you’re kicking me out then? Is that it?” I ask them, practically begging them to prove me wrong.

“Killian, it’s not our choice.” Liam sighs dejectedly. Really? We’re going to take this route? Is there no other route for them to get what they want without me being completely fucked over?

“It bloody well is your choice! Don’t chuck it to the damn label and tell me the truth. Do you want me out or not?” I know I’m panting and I probably sound desperate. I do not care. I practically single-handedly put this band, together. It’s the only thing I have left. They can’t just kick me out.

“We’re prepared to take a hiatus for you to get your shit together, mate.” Robin answers me somberly. Are they completely mad? I have my “shit together,” mate. So, I like to have a little fun? So what? That doesn’t mean that I’m somehow unable to gather my wits and get to work. 

“A trial period? Are you fucking serious? And what am I supposed to be doing in this trial period?” They all shift nervously, not liking that they’re at the receiving end of my angry tirade. It’s quiet for a second until Will speaks up, a cocky grin on his face.

“For one, stop treating the Rolly Jogers like it’s the damn Killian Jones’s Show, mate.” I laugh, I have to. They’ve always teased me about that ever since I became lead vocals and they used to say that all the girls threw themselves at me and didn’t look twice at them, they were just my backing band. I always told them that it wasn’t true, that we were a team and that we always will be.

“Shut up, Will.” The chuckle dies in my throat when I see their serious faces. Have I really treated them that bad? I didn’t think I had treated them any differently, but to be honest I hadn’t been really thinking at all this past year. If being in the band actually felt like being in the Killian Jones’s Show, surely they must know that it wasn’t at all intentional.

“Prove to us, to the label, that you’re not a liability to keep you around.” Robin tells me seriously.

“Aye, prove to us that you still care, little brother.” Liam’s voice is also serious. I look around the room at everyone in it, my brain finally letting it sink in just how much I had hurt them.

“Graham, you’ve been awfully quiet, what do you think?” I ask him, he hadn’t spoken a word since we got here. Though my brother was in the band with me, the fact that Graham was my best friend and my roommate at uni meant I needed to hear what he thought about all this. I’ve always held everything he says at the utmost importance. He doesn’t look at me at first but when he does I can feel that he thinks that this is the right choice.

“I think you should do it, Kil. We started this out together. I’d prefer it if we keep it that way.” He says quietly and I nod. It was in our room that the Rolly Jogers were born, and if he thinks this is a good idea then I’ll oblige him.

“Fine.” I say looking directly at David. “What do I have to do?”

-/-

Perspective. I just need to get bloody perspective. Surely dating Emma, The Fire Breathing Dragon Lady of Death, Swan won’t be that bad. Do I fancy the lass? No, not at all. Is she a terrible sight to behold? No, on that front she’s quite well equipped. However, she just happens to be as nice as a cactus and from my limited experience gathered by being in her company two years ago, I would much rather dry-swallow a chalky multivitamin than being in her presence again.

I rather think that that’s putting my distaste for the lass quite lightly, to be perfectly honest.

“So, what does she gain out of all this?” I ask David as I drive to the recording studio. Honestly, the fact that I have to drive myself to my own doom is a true form of torture.

“Emma?” he asks absentmindedly as he scrolls through his phone. Who the hell does he think I’m referring to if not Emma? Is there an option behind Door #2 that I haven’t been enlightened to yet?

“No, the other lass you’re making me date. Yes, Emma.” I sigh, as I get stuck behind another massive queue of cars and yet another red light. I simply abhor Los Angeles traffic.

“She’s on the same boat as you, Killian.” He answers me simply, not giving any inclination of furthering the statement.

“Please continue.” I urge him to elaborate, grinning at him when he rolls his eyes at me.

“Well, she’s trying to get back on the big screen but she needs to show the production companies that she still has some stability left in her.” He answers matter-of-factly while he types something up on his other phone. Why does he need two phones? Though Liam is the most forthright person I’ve ever met, David is surely comes in at a close second. I doubt he’d ever write inappropriate things on his work phone, so why can’t his personal phone also be his work phone? Why does he need two? Wouldn’t that be incredibly confusing? Whatever.

“What did she do to fall out off the studios’ good graces?” I continue, intrigued. And I am, I’m incredibly curious as to what made Dragon Lady have to prove to the studios that she’s not a total nut-job.

“She’s had a hard year. She just got out of rehab.” Oh, perhaps because she is a total nut-job. It was probably cocaine, let’s be honest that’s what most of the models’ and random unmentionables’ that I’ve been with have had their diet consist of. And if Emma is anything like I remember reading about her two years ago when I met her, then that’s probably it. Incredible. Amazing. This isn’t what I signed up for.

“What the hell, mate? I didn’t agree to date a washed-up actress turned addict.” I turn towards him, quite incensed to be honest, as I park the car in the studio’s lot.

“Killian, she tried to kill herself. That’s why she went to rehab. And you agreed to show the band and the label that you could turn a new leaf and that means that if I tell you to do something, you’ll do it. The fact that you are dating Emma is just because I owe Mary Margaret a favor.”

Oh, so that’s it. I swear Mary Margaret and David have the worst sexual tension that I’ve ever seen (or perhaps the best?). Either way, David has got it bad for her, but he’s too big of a dolt to try to do anything about it. But that doesn’t excuse that I wasn’t told that the woman I’ll be fake dating and forced to spend most of my time for the next months, had just gotten out of rehab nor had I been told that she had some mental issues that landed her there in the first place.

So, just to reiterate what I’ll be dealing with here, I will be dating a prickly, fire-breathing dragon of a woman, who is uptight and uppity, and not to mention untalented actress who just so happens to have gotten out of rehab in the past week.

Oh, Jesus H. Christ, here we go, I think as I start making my way into the conference room with David only to hear that my future lover does not like the idea of dating me any more than I like the idea of dating her.

Good. At least we’ll be on the same page.

“Except there’s one problem Mags, I hate him. I cannot stand Killian Jones.” I hear her tell Mary Margaret firmly, crossing her arms against her chest. Oh, I could have fun with this.

“Well, I don’t particularly fancy you either, love. Alas, here we are.” I say entering the threshold to the conference room, coming up to sit next to her. Her instant reaction is to retract from me, getting as most distance between us as possible without it being obvious. But of course it was obvious, in the same way her utter disdain for me was obvious.

“Hello, lover.” I grin at her, making sure to throw her a wink in the process. Her absolute face of disgust makes me feel positively joyous inside.

“Okay! Killian I’m glad you could join us.” Mary Margaret starts brightly, trying to make light of the situation. I give her a tight smile in response, I’m only joining because I have to, not because I want to.

“Wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.” I respond sarcastically, before David kicks me under the table and hits my shin, making me stifle a groan. Bloody bastard. Mary Margaret takes no notice of my discomfort—I’m sure he left a dent in my shinbone, like 100% sure—but Emma side-glances at me, glaring at me.

“Well, David and I have laid out possible outing options in which you’ll have the most publicity potential. There are two sections, all those marked in red, you have to attend to maximize your visibility to the public at large. Second, those marked in green are optional outings but highly encouraged. And finally, those in blue are just optional outings.”

“Why is Coachella in blue? The boys and I are playing on Saturday night, it should be in red definitely.” I say looking down at the list of options. The bloody Academy Awards are in red and that’s a snooze fest. But Coachella? Coachella is fun (not that I remember last year’s but that’s nuance), it should definitely be red.

“Oh,” Mary Margaret starts, “well those in blue and green are subject to change. But you’re right, that should be in red.” she finishes, making a note of it in her BlackBerry. Wait, why is she using a BlackBerry? Aren’t they considered dead technology? Seriously, what is it with publicists and BlackBerrys?

“On that note, why is the Veuve Cliquot party in blue?” Emma speaks up next to me.

“Because, Swan. It’s a boring polo match full of drunken uppity New Yorkers.” I answer her. I really find that event to be completely unnecessary and simply cannot understand its hype. It’s just catered to the clones of the cast of that awful bloody Gossip Girl show, or whatever it’s called. Not that I watched all seasons on Netflix this past summer. Nobody can attest to that.

“Oh, yes. Because the overrated California hippie fest that is Coachella is a much more important event.” She snarls back at me. Oh, feisty are we?

“Aye, it is.”

“Okay,” Mary Margaret interjects sensing that we’re about to rip out each other’s throats. “They’re both in red now. Now, we’re looking at a minimum six-month to a year engagement. David and I are pretty sure that our respective companies would rather see stability develop over a year or so.” I am dreaming. I am having the most terrible nightmare that has to be it. There’s just no way, no way I have to be attached at the hip to canker sore that is Emma Swan.

“You’re joking.” I say automatically. “You can’t be bloody serious!” I look desperately at David, then at Emma whose fearful eyes probably match mine, then back at David again whose steely glare silences me. This is absolutely ridiculous. A year? A year with Emma Swan? I’d rather die stabbed through the eye like Christopher Marlowe.

“Mags, I won’t do this.” I hear Emma address Mary Margaret seriously. I can sense her tepid anger being covered by a thin veil of seriousness. She’s a damn dragon, one I definitely won’t survive.

“Emma, you promised.” Mary Margaret answers her seriously.

“My promise was made on the premise that I was going to date a nameless wonder…not this!” Emma exclaims gesturing at me. “He’s a canker sore!” I scoff. Takes one to know one. “He’s literally the bane of my existence, there’s just no way. There has to be someone else, anyone but this.” Yes, hello. I am right here. Right beside you. The bane of your existence, right here.

“Right, do you mind not talking about me as if I weren’t here? That’d be great actually.” I interject, slamming my hand on the table.

She just stares at me, her eyes squinting at me as if she couldn’t believe I dared to interject into her outburst.

I meet her eyes fully for the first time all afternoon, surprised by the intense shade of green they contained. It’s a shame such beautiful eyes are lost on such an infuriating person.

“Look, love. I don’t want to do this any more than you do. But we made a promise and we’re both on the same boat and I’m willing to pretend to be able to stomach you if you are.” I tell her sincerely. An illusion makes me think that her eyes softened at what I told her but they narrowed again so fast that it’s possibly that they never softened at all.

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your ‘love’.” She spits out at me, turning her head away from me so fast that her long blond hair whips across my face.

“Right, would Dragon Lady be a better alternative?” I snarl. The nerve of this woman, really. This idea is ludicrous and it’ll never work, not if she’s still part of the equation.

“Killian, can you try to be nice?” David reprimands me from across the table. I look at him plainly and roll my eyes.

“Well I’m not going to bloody well be gallant when she’s my only option.” I exclaim, gesturing towards her.

“Right, do you mind not talking about me as if I weren’t here? That’d be great, actually.” Emma turns towards me, meeting my gaze again and echoing my earlier sentiment and I’m actually amused and feel myself giving her a genuine—if albeit small—smile. I could’ve been imagining it but it seemed like she cracked a small one my way as well.

“Could both of you at least try to give this a shot?” Mary Margaret asks hopefully from the head of the table.

“No.” We say in unison. Looking at each other with a sense of solidarity. The only kind you’d feel whenever you team up with your nemesis for the good of a common goal. In this case, it’s us never being together. “I need air.” Emma says while standing abruptly from her chair, walking deliberately and purposely towards the exit and leaving the room.

Ah, peace and quiet, I think as I rest my head on my hands. I’m still hung-over from last night, and with the excitement of the past hour, my headache definitely came back with a vengeance.

“David, this is never going to work. Can’t you see this is just a time bomb? We’re risking the entire city of Los Angeles exploding if you pair us up together.” I tell him dejectedly, my voice muffled by my hands.

“Killian, you’re doing this, you both are. I don’t care what differences you both have with each other, you’ll put them aside and work together or you’ll be a cruise entertainer for the rest of your life. Now go out there and convince her.” He tells me firmly.

“What cruise line?” I ask hopefully.

“Killian. Go.”

“Fine.”

I stand and walk towards the door trying to figure out where my future bride went. Wouldn’t that be terrible? If I ended up actually liking the lass and we got married? Hell would have frozen over if that ever happened.

I find her in the courtyard, sitting on top of a small concrete wall, unnaturally huge sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose and smoking a cigarette.

“Aren’t you discouraged from partaking in addictive activities when you’re released from rehab?” I ask her. I can’t see her eyes through her sunglasses but if I did, I’m positive she was rolling them at me.

“Aren’t you discouraged from wearing pants when you should go fuck yourself?” she rebuts, making me crack a smile at her crassness.

“May I bum one?” I ask her, she nods and digs in her purse for a cigarette and a lighter.

“I didn’t know you smoked.” She comments, handing the items to me.

“I don’t. Not unless I’m drunk or incredibly stressed.” I tell her, bringing the lighter up to my mouth and lighting the cigarette. Inhaling and letting free the stream of smoke making me feel lighter already.

“I understand that completely.” She nods, tapping her ashes and letting them fall to the floor.

“They really are terrible for you.” I tell her and she laughs. It wasn’t a terrible laugh either, it was light and actually kind of pretty. She lifts her sunglasses to the top of her head and looks at me, her eyes squinting due to the sun.

“Yeah, but here we are.” She answers, taking a long drag afterwards.

“Incredibly stressed.” I add, and she nods.

“And maybe still drunk?” She counters, raising her eyebrows and giving me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. I wonder what happened to her.

Wait, why do I even care?

“Definitely still drunk.” I agree, taking one last drag before dropping the cigarette butt and extinguishing it by stepping on it. “Look, Swan what will it take for you to do this with me?” I ask her plainly, sighing. If she’s the only way I’ll be able to prove to my mates that I’m serious about it, then so be it.

“Just give me a valid reason why I should.” She offers me seriously, just for show and I can tell. She doesn’t have a say in this either.

“It may seem hard to believe, but I’m not doing this for myself. I’m doing it for my mates, I’ve disappointed them and I want to prove to them that I still care about them.” I tell her honestly, her eyes boring deep into mine as if testing my words for lies.

“We hate each other and we have nothing in common.” She says quietly, shaking her head before looking away from me.

“That may be true, but here I thought you were an actress.” I say, looking at her as she drops her own cigarette butt and steps on it.

“I am an actress.” She replies, looking back at me defiantly.

“So play the role of your life and make the world think you’ve fallen in love with me.” She smiles another smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and places her hand on top of mine.

“Okay.”


	3. Chapter Three- I Know Places

Chapter Three- I Know Places

Emma

It has been the worst three weeks of my life, of that I am one hundred percent sure. Not only is Killian Jones the most abrasive, chauvinistic, insufferable asshole I have ever met, but also spending nearly a month in his constant companionship has been the bane of my entire existence. He said that he wanted me to give it a chance because it would mean the world to his mates. Well if it means so much to him that I commit to this suicide mission, why is he completely failing to put up his end of the deal?

How is he failing, you ask? Well for starters, he’s late 99% of the time. The longest I’ve waited for him is three hours, for a fucking meeting in which we needed to discuss the minute details of our lives. Any and every aspect of our superficial backstory was to be shared so we knew how to answer random questions by red-carpet journalists and by random interviewers. We are supposed to be preparing for awards season, yet he can’t commit to get to stupid meetings on time. Furthermore, he’s rude. We got into this mess knowing that we had nothing in common, but every time I say something that he doesn’t care about or doesn’t like, he goes off on a tangent telling me how awful they actually are. So what if I like a TV show about modern retellings of classic fairytales in which they’re stuck in New England leading their lives not knowing that they’re fairytale characters? I like it and he has no right to shit on it just because he does not.

Killian has also managed to stand me up not once, but twice, at our first scheduled coffee date. Normally, if this happened there wouldn’t be a second coffee date and I would most certainly tell the guy to get lost. But no, I cannot do that. As much as I want to tell Killian Jones to get lost and never ever talk to me again, I am forced to sit here at the Starbucks in Sunset Boulevard, waiting to get stood up by Killian for what’s most likely the third time this week. I’ve been drumming my fingers on the table I’m sitting at, scrolling idly through social media on my phone, impatiently waiting for him for the past thirty minutes. There’s simply no use in me being here, he’s not showing up (a thought I text Mary Margaret yet she simply responds for me to suck it up, that David said he was on his way, and that Killian was going to be there). I sigh, (but whether from relief or disdain I’m not sure yet) when I hear the door open and in strolls Killian Jones wearing a white Henley and dark wash jeans, his aviator sunglasses perched on the top of his nose.

It annoys me even further that I can’t deny that the man is attractive.

“Hello, love.” He says sitting on the chair in front of me, taking the sunglasses off his face and hooking them on his shirt collar, fixing his intense blue eyes on me.

“You’re late.” I say, my lips pursed and my demeanor generally unamused. Killian just sighs and looks at me plainly, he doesn’t want to be here anymore than I do.

“Yes, but I am here.” He snaps at me, crossing his arms against his chest. I strive to look at anything but at the way his strong tanned forearms look against the soft fabric of his Henley.

“Which is incredibly surprising, because I thought I was going to be stood up again.” I smirk, my sarcastic tone earning me an eye roll form his part. He stands up and holds his hand out.

“Come on, Swan. I’ll buy you a drink.” He says from above me as I take his hand and he pulls me out of my seat. He doesn’t even wait for me to get my wallet and instead walks towards the line at the register.

“I can pay for my own coffee, Killian.” I whisper once I’m the line standing next to him. He looks at me and rolls his eyes again, a common trait I’m beginning to think.

“And I have no doubt about it, but seeing as I’m here taking you out on a date I’m afraid it’s my treat.” He whispers back, shaking his head at me. He then proceeds to place his hand on my back, guiding me forward.

“What are you doing? Why are you touching me?” I say, his touch being a foreign concept to me. I see Killian take a deep breath, a clear sign that I was driving him up a wall.

“Swan, I’m curious. Have you ever actually been in a relationship?” He mutters with a smile on his face as he pushes a strand of hair behind my ear. Once again, I have to admit that I jumped back a little bit at his touch. 

“Of course I’ve been in a relationship.” I snap. How insensitive can this man get? The only reason I ended up in rehab in the first place is because of a failed relationship—well that and some internalized abandonment issues what with me being an orphan after all.

“Brilliant. Then why do I have to explain to you why it is strange that I, as your boyfriend, am putting my hand in the small of your back?” Killian then weaves his hand around my waist and he pulls me closer to him, his chin resting on my shoulder while I’m pressed up against him. Out of the corner of my eye I see a teenage girl snap a picture of us and I let out a sigh of relief. Being that he’s the most insufferable man I’ve ever had the displeasure of keeping in my company, it’s sometimes hard to remember just why we’re doing this and that girl snapping a picture of us is just the first step to both of us (but most importantly me) getting back where we want to be.

“Just try to keep it north of the border, okay Casanova?” I smirk at him, pushing myself a few spaces away from him.

“I wouldn’t dream about being inappropriate with you, Swan.” He grins at me, his hand on my shoulder now pushing me forward towards the register.

“Why because suddenly you’re a gentleman?” I tease him as he pretends to observe the menu and a devilish smirk appears on his face as he ponders his answer.

“No, because you’re not remotely my type.” Oh, so we’re back to this? And here I thought we were about to embark on a beautiful friendship. But no, I guess it’s time to make a mental note that Killian Jones is still—and probably will always be—an ass. “Now, what can I get you, love?” He asks me.

“Just get me a hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon on top.” I tell him stoically and wait for him to finish paying for it.

“Bit childish, but I respect it.” He cocks his eyebrow at me while walking back to our table.

“That’s a first.” I answer him.

“What is?” He sighs exasperatedly.

“You respecting something that I like.” I respond sounding as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world because…it is.

“What’s that supposed to mean? I respect you and the things you like.” He asks, seemingly offended at my thinking that he doesn’t respect me. You know, because he doesn’t.

“You shit on my shows.” I answer him. He grins at me.

“I do love how crass you are, Swan. And for the record I’m teasing you. Boyfriends do that.”

“Right, except you don’t tease me you write dissertations on why something I like that you don’t is actually the worst thing in the world.” He’s about to snap back at my comment when the barista calls his pseudonym, “James Hook”—idiot, the man is an idiot—signaling that our order is ready.

“I’m going to go get our order, my love. I’ll be right back.” He tells me and stands up.

“This conversation isn’t over.” I singsong after him and I almost laugh when I see him come back with a determined expression.

“Perhaps I did get carried away with that text.” He tells me as he places my cup of hot chocolate in front of me and sits back down.

“It was three pages long. I’d say that was more than being a little carried away.” I exclaim, laughing despite myself. “What are you doing?” I ask as his hand covers mine.

“Swan, I trust that I don’t have to explain to you that boyfriends hold their girlfriend’s hands.”

“Sorry. I just wasn’t expecting it.” I say, unaccustomed to the feel of his calloused fingertips tracing circles on my palm. “Your fingertips are rough.” I observe, thinking nothing of the feel of Killian’s hands in particular, but thinking about how different his hands felt in mine in comparison to Neal’s.

“Oh, sorry.” He says quickly, his hands slipping away from mine. “Guitar.” He offers as an explanation, scratching the back of his neck rather nervously. He does that a lot, actually.

“No, it’s okay. I kind of liked it.” I add sheepishly and he smirks at me. He takes his right hand and grabs my left again. He absentmindedly traces circles on my palm once again and I can’t deny that it feels very nice. I still hate him and he’s an idiot, but this…this is nice.

“You’re very honest, Swan.” Killian states before taking a sip of his iced coffee. “Why is that?” he asks.

“I guess I don’t like lying.” I shrug disinterestedly, sensing that the conversation is taking a turn for a more serious one.

“You’re an actress, you lie for a living.” He counters.

“I like to think that I act for a living, but whatever floats your boat, Jones.” He smiles at me and narrows his eyes as he takes another sip of his coffee. Pointing a finger at me he starts, “Swan, you’re avoiding the question.”

“I just don’t like liars or lying in general. That’s really it.” I roll my eyes at him. Seriously, this guy is insane. I really don’t like how he keeps trying to pry into my psyche. Sir, my walls are up for a reason.

“Come on, Swan. Tell me something personal.” He says exasperated and I shake my head at him. “I’m sorry you have to be a level four friend to unlock my tragic backstory.” I say and he cocks his head at me, reminding me more of a confused puppy than anything else.

“Did you just make a joke?” Killian asks. I’m actually offended that he’s so surprised, just because I was suicidal doesn’t mean that I can’t be funny.

“Well, I am human. A sense of humor is part of the package.”

“Sorry, I’m still in shock. Dragon Lady Emma Swan makes a joke. Someone call the New York Times.” Okay, I can make a joke. He cannot.

“You’re terrible.” I tell him.

“And you’re going to have to get used to it, Swan. You are stuck with this dashing rapscallion for a minimum six month engagement.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me—he can move both and it’s actually kind of disturbing—and places his hands behind his head.

“Are you referring to yourself as a dashing rapscallion? What are you three hundred years old?” Seriously, who says that anymore? He ponders my question and gestures his hand in a sort of motion. “Give or take.” He concedes.

“Good to know.” I nod, taking a sip of my hot chocolate and when I put my cup back down he laughs at me. “What?” I ask. He shakes his head and reaches his thumb towards me and wipes what I now realize as residue whipped cream off my upper lip. “You had a little something.” He mumbles a small smile gracing his lips. He sits back and we just look at each other, not really knowing what to say at something that came out so naturally.

“So, have you done this before?” he asks to change the subject.

“Done what?” I ask.

“Fake dating a person for publicity.” Killian answers as if it’s obvious. You know, because what we’re doing is totally normal.

“Oh yeah, a couple of times. Usually it’s a lesser amount of time that I have to spend with the person and the fate of my career doesn’t rest on it.” I nod.

“Does it work?” he asks me seriously.

“It gets us noticed, yes. Which is what we want.” I nod again.

“Do you think it’s working now?”

“What do you mean?” I ask him, completely forgetting that he isn’t as used to this kind of publicity strategy as I am.

“Well, is it working now are we gaining attention with this outing or are we just wasting time and money at a Starbucks in Sunset Boulevard?” he asks me plainly. Oh, this is precious. He’s so naïve.

“Killian, a seventeen year old girl has taken exactly fifteen pictures of us in the last ten minutes. She’s sitting three tables down and one across from us. I’m going to spitball here and say that she’s already sent it to all of her friends, who sent it to other friends. I’d say that by the time that we walk out of this place the parking lot is going to be swarming with paparazzi. Trust me, we’re gaining attention.” I finish and he stares back at me dumbfounded.

“How do you know all this?” he asks, and I almost laugh because his voice is full with awe.

“First of all, I’ve been in the business for a while longer than you have and second of all, TMZ already posted the picture this girl took. Mary Margaret sent me a screenshot of it with five thumbs up emojis and sixteen firework emojis.”

“Wow.” He responds. “That’s insane.”

“Speaking of insane, that’s the way it’s going to get around here if we don’t leave soon. The paps are probably on the prowl.” I tell him and he nods, getting up and holding out his hand for me again. I gladly take it and I’ve got to admit that it surprised me that neither of us let go of each other’s hands as we walk out of Starbucks.

“We should do this again.” He says, still holding my hand, as we get to my car.

“I think we have another one next month.” I tell him.

“No, I mean not planned. I’d like to get to know you outside all of these special timeframes and for us to just have a chance to be us.” The fact that he’s asking me out on what sounds like a date perplexes me. He doesn’t like me like that and I certainly do not like him like that…so what’s the point?

“I mean, I’d be okay with it if you’re willing to stomach me for a couple of more hours.” I laugh, resting my body against my SUV, his forearm—gorgeous, strong tanned thing that it is—resting against the side of my face.

He smirks at me.

“You’re not that bad, Swan. Plus, it’s not like it’s a date or anything. It’ll just look like one.” Sigh of relief! We are on the same page, thank God.

“I’ve got to go.” I tell him. “I have a meeting in thirty minutes.”

“Friday? I’ll pick you up at seven?” He asks me, his deep blue eyes staring into my green ones hopefully.

“Okay.” I say. Trust me, it’s as hard to believe for me, as it is to you that I’ve accepted a dinner invitation from this man (i.e. a safe bet that the night will end in indigestion). He grins and kisses me on the cheek—more for show than anything else—and walks back to his own car.

-/-

That Friday, Killian picks me up—surprisingly on time—at seven. He tells me I look stunning as he regards my choice outfit of a little black dress, doc martens, and a red flannel shirt tied at the waist. No, I am not a slob, he just told me that we were going to Santa Monica for the night to hang out at Pacific Park and I hardly thought that a Balmain dress would have been appropriate. We arrive at the pier around eight and have dinner at the Harbor Grill. Dinner consists of double cheeseburgers with bacon, two Pabst Blue Ribbon beers—each—and a mountain of onion rings. 

I’ve got to say that Killian does know how to show a girl a good time. We were enjoying the rides, playing different carnival games—I won a stuffed shark, which he told me that as his date I should give it to him to which I responded by telling him to fuck off, that we’re not really dating, and that the badass shark was mine—he even bought me some funnel cake. It was one of the most fun if not the best night I’ve had in a while, and I could sense that it was the same for him.

However, I knew that on the back of each of our minds was the worry that the fun would cease abruptly once the media got word of where we were. After the Starbucks date, the picture of our coffee date had gone viral. We were on every online story, sources “close” to us were even saying that we had been dating for months and that Killian planned to propose to me soon. Wouldn’t that be a riot?

“This has been so fun.” I tell him as we step off of the Ferris Wheel.

“Aye, it’s been bloody fantastic. You’re one hell of a time, Swan.” He agrees with me—and I register the compliment but I don’t respond. I sensed the atmosphere change the minute we got back onto the pier. Suddenly, I realized people focusing on the position of Killian’s hand on the small of my back, the fact that he was carrying my stuffed shark, and that I was wearing his LA Dodgers cap.

Fuck, we’ve been ratted out. And as I come to terms with the fact that we were back in the public eye, camera flashes start to go off all around us. Instinctively I go to take Killian’s hand in mine but the crowd starts to swarm around us and we get separated, the last thing I see is Killian’s terrified gaze searching for mine. I push through the throng of people closing in around us, virtually blinded by camera flashes as I try to search for him. I hear his voice call out my name and suddenly a familiar calloused hand grabs my hand tightly.

“What do we do?” he asks me frantically.

“We need to run.” I tell him, tightening my grip on his hand and pulling him with me as I run through the barricade of paparazzi. I feel my shirt tear, but I pay no mind to it. I don’t stop running until I reach the parking lot, Killian following dutifully behind me.

“What the fuck was that?” Killian exclaims, shocked by the whole ordeal.

“I told you we’re infamous, now give me your keys.” I say coolly, struggling to keep my composure and stick the key in the ignition. I haven’t been followed so hard since I got out of rehab. Killian slides into the passenger seat, his face stricken with terror. Poor thing.

“We need to get out of the public eye for a bit.” I say pulling the car out of the parking spot and speeding out of Santa Monica as fast as legally possible…and maybe ten miles over that.

“Where the bloody hell are we going to do that?”

“I know a place, don’t worry.” I say as I take the back-roads towards my family’s house in Malibu, expertly dodging any van that tried to follow us. Killian mumbles something about reflective covers on his license plates so, whatever picture they took of us, they won’t be able to locate the car.

I park some thirty minutes later in front of the house my adoptive father used to own in before it was conveyed to me upon his passing. I turn off the car and sigh, turning to look at Killian.

“Are you okay?” I ask him sincerely. The poor man has been shocked silent ever since we left Santa Monica.

“Has it always been this way for you?” He asks as we get out of the car and start making our way to the dark house.

“Not always, that was one of the worst it’s ever been.” I tell him, closing the electric fence behind us.

“That was absolutely terrifying.” He continues, waiting for me to go open the door to the house. “It’s okay.” I tell him, digging in my purse for the keys to unlock the door. “They won’t find us here.”

“Where are we?”

“I kind of…grew up here.” I say shabbily, taking a page out of his book and scratching the back of my neck nervously. I’ve never really brought anyone here ever since my father passed away six years ago. Not even Neal.

“Are your parent’s going to be okay with us hiding out here?” Killian asks, and it kind of pains me for him to talk about my parents still in the present tense. In all honesty, were they still alive, my parents would have absolutely loved to house me here. I don’t remember much of my mom, but I knew that she wouldn’t have minded having me home. At least, that’s what I like to think.

“No one lives here anymore.” I say quietly and Killian’s eyes widen in understanding. I like that he doesn’t press more questions.

“I’m sorry.” He says, his hand outstretching towards mine and I let him hold it for a few seconds before I drop it to turn on the lights in the house.

“Don’t be…it was a long time ago.” He nods and doesn’t say anything else merely follows me into the kitchen where I dig up some glasses and a bottle of rum left in the cabinet. I fill the glass with ice and pour the clear liquid into it, pushing one across the kitchen island towards him. “To surviving our first paparazzi attack.” I say, raising the glass towards him. Killian smiles and clinks his glass against mine and takes a swig.

He follows me out onto the porch and sits next to me on the swing. It’s funny, for as much as I dislike this man, I have no qualms about his arm being draped around my shoulder. I guess that there is things that bring people closer together and you just can’t deny their company after a while, and surviving a paparazzi attack is definitely one of those. We sit on the porch quietly enjoying each other’s company and polishing off the already half empty bottle of rum. I start wondering just how long we’ve been sitting out here in silence, peacefully listening to the waves crash against the shore, when Killian speaks up.

“You know, my mum died when I was five years old and my dad he was barely ever around after that. If it hadn’t been for Liam, I don’t know how I could have gotten through that.” I don’t know why he starts listing off his life story, but he does. He tells me how Liam, who is seven years older than him, basically took on both parental roles for the sake of Killian. He taught him to play guitar and how to read music in addition to both getting Killian into trouble and out of it. He keeps talking for ages it seems, but it’s soothing and welcome.

“Why are you telling me all this?” I ask him once he’s done. He shrugs and looks down at me, his eyes glossy from the alcohol, his thoughts probably as fuzzy as mine.

“When we met at the record studio, you told me that we had nothing in common. I guess I wanted to show you that we did.”

“Just because we both lost our parents doesn’t mean we have anything in common.” I tell him.

“No, but it does mean that we both know loss in the same way and believe it or not, Swan, having that kind of knowledge changes you.” He whispers quietly, his eyes locked intensely with mine. “Your turn. Tell me something personal.” He says and I notice that his gaze shifts momentarily to my lips, then back up at my eyes.

“I’m actually kind of glad that I’m getting to know you.” I say, surprising even my drunken self.

“Aye.” He whispers, looking down at my lips before he brushes his against them.

-/-

“Emma, are you awake?” I hear Killian ask from the other side of the closed door at the edge of the bedroom. What is he doing here? It’s so late, he shouldn’t be here.

I sit up on my bed, not knowing what to do. Should I even answer him? “Emma.” His muffled voice singsongs through the wooden door. I stand up without realizing it, and my feet carry me towards the door. I don’t know why, but I’m hesitant to open it.

“I am now, Jones.” I tell him and a thud on the door makes me realize that he is resting his head against the door.

“Can I come in?” he asks. I don’t remember opening the door but suddenly it’s wide open and he’s in front of me. His hair is disheveled, his accent thicker with grogginess, his body swaying lightly on his feet due to the remnant inebriation from tonight. I scan his body quickly and my own responds instinctively to the way the white undershirt clings tightly to his upper body, leaving little to the imagination.

It only takes a nod from my part for him to enter the room and close the door behind him. The air is thick and pulsating with tension and I’m pretty sure it would be fairly easy to cut it with a knife. I know we’re both thinking about the kiss we shared earlier, but we both chucked it to being drunk and lonely. We came to terms with the fact that were going to be strictly professional from now on, we said that. We meant it.

Except the way he’s looking at me doesn’t seem like he meant it. I see Killian lick his lips instinctively, his insidious self biting down on his lips before he takes three long strides towards me and crashes his lips onto mine. If possible, I like this kiss better than the one we had earlier. That kiss was sloppy and unremarkable compared to this one, this one was needy, hungry, and filled with want. My body responds naturally to him kissing me, there is a fire coiling in the bottom of my stomach as his tongue parts my lips and starts deepening the kiss. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge as his calloused fingertips thread my hair between them. I bite down on his bottom lip and the moan that escapes his lips makes goose bumps erupt all across my skin.

I want him.

How did we even get to this moment? A month ago I hated him more than I ever thought I could hate a person, two weeks ago he was still insufferable and barely tolerable, and now here we are in my house in Malibu making out in the middle of my room. Here we are, swaying in the spot, one of his hands dug deep into my hair the other palming my breast over the thin layer of fabric I am wearing, kissing and biting each other like it’s our last night on earth.

I gasp for air and he spares no time in attaching his lips to my neck, biting and sucking the exposed skin so hard I’m fairly certain that tomorrow I’ll have something to show for it. Somehow I ask him for more and he chuckles, his breath hot against my skin. Killian pulls away and raising his hand lazily, he places it on my chest and pushes me lightly back onto my bed. I decide to sneak a peek at what I’m going up against and it’s fair to say that right now, Killian Jones wants me as much as I want him.

“Like what you see, love?” he teases, grinning wickedly at me.

“It seems impressive,” I hear myself say, “but do you know how to use it?” He raises an eyebrow at me, clearly impressed by my challenge. He licks his lips again and walks closer to me, his lips merely centimeters away from my own.

“Oh, I know how to use it, Swan.” He tells me, his hand brushing away a stray lock of hair from my forehead. “But I’m much more interested in having you beg for it.”

Whatever witty response I have for him dissipates as soon as I feel him press the palm of his hand against my core, which has been aching for him since he first kissed me earlier today. I hear him give a dry chuckle as I moan at the pressure he’s adding. “What do you want, Swan?” he asks. God, he’s so infuriating. He’s teasing me when I need him to do the opposite. “More.” I moan, the wetness between my legs becoming more and more prominent with each passing second. I hear him whisper “bloody minx” as he realizes that I have no underwear on when he pushes my cotton shorts to the side, before slipping two fingers inside of me. He doesn’t reach my spot the first time but it still feels incredible. The second time he does reach my spot, my body reacting instinctively to his touch.

It’s been so long since I’ve felt like this that I had forgotten how much I love it. His fingers work furiously inside of me, each time the pleasure getting more intense. I want to go over the edge and I know full well that it’s what he intends for me to do. He must know that I’m close because he nods his head against my inner thigh—where it has rested for this whole experience while he switched between biting and sucking whatever exposed flesh was nearest to him, most likely leaving another mark that will totally be visible tomorrow—as my breaths get shallower and faster, moans dying deep in my throat. I crumble quickly after I feel his mouth closing in on my center, lapping his tongue around my clit and sucking it as I ride out my orgasm against his fingers.

That was incredible.

“What do you want, Swan?” Killian asks, his gaze darkened with lust. He wants me to beg for him and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want him. After the performance he just gave me and the way he made me feel, I’d be crazy to say I didn’t want to find out what it felt like to be completely ravished by him. I drag my hands up and down the toned forearms that are placed on either side of my head. His skin is warm and welcoming, and as I look back up to him I see that he’s transfixed, the intense look of longing etched deep in his eyes.

“I want you to make me yours.” I breathe and that’s all he needs. Kneeling on top of me he smiles before he kisses me again, his lips forceful against mine, and takes my hands in each of his, pining them above my head. His lips drag back down towards my neck, making quick work on the spot he bit fervently earlier, for a few seconds until he traces a path down to my clavicle. He licks his lips as my chest heaves up and down with my raggedy intake of breath. He stops as his mouth is nears my breasts and his breath feels warm against the thin fabric of my shirt. He looks back up at me as if asking for permission, I nod not sure if it’s what he wants but it seems so because he runs his tongue against my nipple, the wet fabric making an amazing friction. “Killian, please.” I hear myself beg, my hips grinding against his knee, my body having had enough of his incessant teasing.

“I like it when you beg, Swan.” He laughs, his lips closed against my shoulder now that he’s finally taken my (and also his) shirt off.

“Oh fuck off and get on with it, Jones.” I snap, my hips grinding against his palpable erection, making the smirk on his face disappear almost immediately. He slips off his boxers and throws them to some darkened corner of the room.

“As you wish.” He replies before taking off my shorts and sliding into me all in one swift motion. He cusses against my shoulder, his strong forearms—which are quickly becoming my favorite feature of his—back on either side of my head. As he thrusts into me I realize that I do not know how long, if at all, I’ll be able to hold my composure. He hits the spot every single time, making his name the only thing I’m able to mutter through my moans. He kisses me deeply one more time, and if there’s something I’m sure of is that I never want to feel another set of lips against my own. I feel myself smiling as he says my name over and over and over, almost like a chant or a prayer. I know that he’s close, I can feel him throbbing and pulsating inside of me. His breaths become shorter and more ragged as he thrusts into me and I can’t hold it in any longer. I scream his name and come again, bringing him over the edge with me, my hips still grinding against his as we ride out what’s left of each other’s orgasm.

A moan escapes my lips as I wake up and find myself in an empty bed inside my darkened room. It’s three in the morning and my hand is inside of my shorts, clear evidence that I had actually dreamed what I feared I did.

I dig the heel of my palms into against my eyes and all I can think is: “Fuck no. Please no.”


	4. Chapter Four- The Lucky Ones

Chapter Four- The Lucky Ones

I awake to the sound of waves crashing against the shore and for a split second I cannot fathom where it is that I spent the night, but then I remember last night in Santa Monica and how Emma and I ended up using her childhood home as a safe haven from the paparazzi. I also remember the kiss we shared. Why or how that happened is unbeknownst to me, I cannot fathom a single reason why I wanted to kiss her in the first place. Perhaps it was because I finally saw some glimpse into who Emma Swan is behind the walls she’s raised all around her or perhaps it was because I finally saw some connection between the two of us. 

Either way, it’s highly unlikely that it will happen again.

It’s early, too early given by the fact that the only brightness in the room is a muted light blue light that creeps in through the window, a clear sign that the sun has only just begun to come up and daylight is just breaking. I try to fall back asleep and wake up at a more reasonable hour, but it’s futile. There’s simply no way I’ll be able to fall back asleep, so I opt to get up and wander about instead. I walk out of the room, careful to keep my movements muted so as to not disturb Emma, not wanting to ruse the sleeping dragon that she’s kept locked inside her for the past few days. I smile to myself, walking along the darkened hallway, the pictures on the wall capturing my attention. I see pictures of Emma as a child—devious little smirks covered by unruly blonde hair present in most of the pictures—I see pictures of her with an older woman—whom I presume is her mother—happy smiles in all of them. As the pictures of Emma show her getting older, however, the devious smirks and mirthful eyes are no longer present and they are instead replaced with scowls and a muted expression. It makes me wonder what on earth happened to her. Something tells me that something dire happened to her mother, because no longer does she show up in the handful of pictures of Emma when she was a teenager. Had she died? I obviously know they both did because of what Emma said last night, but I never thought she had lost a parent at a tender age, just like I did.

“What are you doing?” I hear her voice ask behind me. I turn around and look at her, smiling slightly at the sight in front of me. A sight of disheveled hair coupled with an old high school t-shirt clinging to her lithe body, the shirt so oversized that it masks part of her shorts, making it seem like she has none.

“I couldn’t sleep.” I offer, my hand instinctively going up to scratch the back of my neck as it usually does when I’m nervous or have nothing better to say. I’d like to think that I’m suffering from the latter and not the fact that I’m nervous, because there is no reason that I should be nervous around Emma Swan unless I fear being burnt to a crisp from her fire-breathing self. “I take it you couldn’t either?”

“I had a nightmare.” She answers me flatly, confirming my suspicions that she is nowhere near a morning person.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I tell her as my hand instinctively goes to tuck a rogue strand of hair behind her ear but she shudders away from me. I find it odd, considering how close we’ve been getting these past few days we’ve spent together but I don’t think anything about if after that. She is a prickly person all things considered.

“I’m fine. Do you want some coffee?” she asks through a yawn as she makes her way out of the dim hallway and out to the kitchen. I follow her and see her dig into her purse for her packet of cigarettes and lights one, taking a drag before opening the fridge and rummaging for some milk.

“I thought we agreed these are bad for you.” I say cheekily. She turns to me and gives me a deadpan look, before she raises her eyebrow and tells me that I’m welcome to having one if I want. I oblige her and take one out of the carton, lighting it before I, myself, go to the fridge and open it, taking out a carton of eggs out of it.

“What are you doing?” She says as she waits for the coffee to brew.

“Isn’t it obvious? Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Swan.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Boyfriends tend to do this at times as well, Swan. At least those who can expertly maneuver themselves around a kitchen.”

“You’re not my boyfriend. Don’t start pretending that you actually tolerate me.”

“Swan, just shut up and let me make you a bloody omelet.” I sigh exasperatedly and turn to see her smirking at me, the same little devious smirk that I saw in the earlier pictures. I finally realize that what she enjoys most is to push me till I break, to annoy me just as much as my mere presence annoys her.

She’s bloody evil, but two can play that game. If my presence annoys her so much, I decide that then and there that Emma Swan will not get rid of me so easily.

“Swan,” I start nonchalantly as I crack open an egg, let it slide next to the other yolks in a bowl, and start whisking the mixture with a fork. I drift off on purpose, making it her huff next to me in annoyance.

“Yes, Killian?” she concedes after a long pause, making me grin widely.

“I was wondering—actually, I was rather hoping—if you would like to accompany me to rehearsal with the lads later today.” I say, going back to the fridge and rummaging in it for some cheese, onions, and other omelet essentials. She doesn’t answer, but stays quiet. She is evidently mulling over my proposal and eyeing my every move, apprehension clearly etched in her gaze.

“Why?” She asks, bringing her cup of coffee close to her lips afterwards.

“I just thought you’d enjoy it that’s all.” I shrug as I empty the egg mixture onto a saucepan and start pushing back the edges of the rapidly cooking omelet.

“You do know we’re not actually dating, do you Killian?” she asks me and I turn just in time to catch her grinning at me from the other side of kitchen island, the rebel strand of gold hair being tucked behind her ear once more.

“I know.” I say, “I just thought you’d like to meet the band prior to the Grammys.” I finish, sliding the omelet off the pan and onto a plate that I then place right in front of her.

“Thanks.” She says surprised, nervously tucking the rebel strand behind her ear yet again. “You didn’t have to do that.” She mumbles.

“I wanted to.” I shrug turning back towards the stove to work on my own breakfast.

“You know, it’s really hard to hate you when you turn out being so nice.” I hear her say and I smile.

“Well Swan, it seems like we keep finding things to have in common. You’re not so bad either.” I hear her laugh and I can’t help to feel warmth spread throughout my body. I don’t know what it is I’m feeling, why it is I feel the need to stay close to her, or why she doesn’t repulse me as much as she did three months ago but I would do well to nip whatever is threatening to grow in the bud.

-/-

I have been stood up. I can’t believe it. I have been stood up by Emma-bloody-Swan. She’s so bloody infuriating. You know, I should’ve trusted my gut when I was having second thoughts about going through this fucking ordeal. But no, I didn’t. I decided to do the noble thing, make it up to the band, and be her bloody fucking fake boyfriend. I really don’t see how I couldn’t have shown stability by going about my daily life and buying some sort of dog that would require me to develop some semblance of responsibility. No, what I got was a dragon, a flirty, fire-breathing, prickly, blonde dragon.

I know that she’s doing this on purpose. I know that she’s just getting back at me for missing all those scheduled coffee dates and I get it. I understand. But after the fun we had last night, and—if I were being honest—the quite romantic kiss we shared at her home, I would assume that she would at least come to rehearsal. Most of rehearsal, however, has come and gone and all I have to show for it is the endless taunts from my band mates teasing me about my “girlfriend” not showing up.

Bleeding prats, the lot of them.

I’m left alone at the studio to mull over my thoughts. Part of me doesn’t understand what I’m feeling because to be perfectly honest, a dashing rapscallion like myself is hardly ever stood up. I mindlessly strum the guitar I’ve had in my lap for at least an hour, angry that my thoughts are all but consumed with Emma Swan. Her blonde hair, her vibrant green eyes, and the fact that I can’t seem to stand her yet have every desire to be constantly in her presence. It angers me because I know that I can’t stand the woman.

I don’t know how long I’ve been in there when I hear the door open. I don’t look back, not caring who it is who walked through.

“Shit, am I late?” I whip my head around so fast at the sound of her voice, meeting her apologetic gaze instantly. I nod dumbfounded at the fact that she’s here, that I wasn’t stood up.

“I thought you said it was at two thirty! God, Killian, I’m so sorry.” She looks so apologetic that I cannot help but smile empathetically. I tell her that it’s fine, unable to take my gaze away from her lithe figure. I know that whatever attraction I have towards her is purely physical. At least, that’s what I keep saying to myself. It has to be purely physical.

“They’re at lunch.” I hear myself say, standing up and instinctively going over to her. I don’t now if we should hug or how to even approach her, but it’s fine because she seems to be having the same dilemma, evidently so because she just sticks out her hand towards me. I give her a dry chuckle as I take her hand in mine and shake it. “I thought we had put handshakes behind us.” I tease as I drop her hand, still feeling the ghost of her touch against my skin.

“Sorry, I just can’t get over the awkwardness of it all.” She shrugs, nervously playing with her hair as she responds.

“I know, I can’t get over it either.” I offer, thinking maybe that the reason as to why she feels so awkward around me is because we kissed last night. But, we had both established to maintain a professional relationship afterwards, so I really do not know what’s the issue. I motion to the couch at the back of the room and we both walk over to it and sit. The air is dense with tension, tension regarding words obviously left unsaid, tension regarding sexual desire—at least on my part, I don’t know about her—and tension regarding the imminent return of my band mates.

“Do you play anything?” She asks after we sit in silence for a moment.

“Aye, I do. I can get around he piano and the guitar. I do the singing mostly.”

“That’s cool. I wish I could sing.” She offers, clearly impressed by my so-called talents.

“Can’t you?”

“No, if it were a matter of holding a tune in order to save my life, I’d be dead in a heartbeat. I love music though.” She laughs and once again I am drawn by how it sounds, soft, pretty, and endearing.

“Well, if you can’t sing then maybe I can teach you to play.” I say standing up and getting an acoustic guitar on the other side of the room. I outstretch my guitar carrying hand towards her but she looks like I’ve sprouted another head. “Go on, grab the thing, Swan.”

Grabbing it from my hand she places it against her lap and looks expectantly at me. “Now what do I do?” she asks. I give her a quick explanation of frets and chords, the notes that correspond to each string, and the different parts.

“Okay, now put these three fingers over here.” I tell her as I kneel in front of her, placing her ring, middle, and index fingers on a fret. “That’s an A Major chord. Now strum.” She does and the guitar sounds as if she had no chord pressed on a fret, but I didn’t expect any less from a beginner.

“Oh, my God. I’m terrible. I quit.” She says flustered, trying to thrust back the guitar towards me but I push it back onto her lap.

“Did you expect it to be easy your first time, Swan? Just press down the fingers on the chord a little tighter.” I say firmly, positioning the fingers on the fret again.

“This hurts.” She mumbles and I smile at how white her knuckles are from pressing down.

“Only at first, you get used to it after a while.” I say sincerely, looking up at her eyes. The focused look on her face is endearing, I can see how badly she wants to get this right. She strums again and the chord comes out a little better but it still needs work.

“No, like this seriously hurts.” She says again as I add pressure to her fingers with my own.

“If it hurts, then that means it’s working. Now strum.” She does as I tell her and a beautiful A Major chord comes out, but all I can see is the satisfied grin on her face when she hears it and all I want to do is kiss her all over again. I know I need to stop, that we’re not even friends not even anything real. I tell myself that it’s her mystery that enchants me, the curiosity of trying to find out what she hides behind her walls that attracts me, but nothing further or deeper than that.

“Okay, what chord next?” She asks excitedly, snapping me out of my reverie, and I reposition her fingers into an E Major chord.

“Right, from this one you’re going to strum all six strings together. Not starting from the second string like last time.”

“I think I got it.” She says before strumming the new chord, which comes out almost perfect.

“You’re a natural, Swan.” I tell her, meaning every word, and she grins at me.

“You’re a good teacher.” She says softly, her eyes truly locking with mine for the first time since this morning in a gaze so sincere it actually makes me wonder if she has been thinking the same way I have. I grin as I go to tuck that rebellious strand behind her ear and this time she doesn’t shy away from the motion. I have to fight against every fiber of my being that’s begging me to just crash my lips against hers instead. But the surmounting tension keeps filling the room and I can’t help myself. It only takes for her to look down at my lips one more time before I take the guitar out of her lap and press my lips against hers. Her arms rapidly circle around my neck and pull me closer to her. I know that letting the attraction I have for her overcome my senses will come back and bite me in the arse. However, I simply couldn’t help myself, especially now that her hands are threading her nimble fingers through my hair and she’s moaned at least three times while I deepen the kiss. She bites my lip and I swear that if I could, I would have her on this couch right this very second. I start kissing her alongside her jaw and trace kisses down her neck and collarbone, my mind in a complete lustful haze.

“We should stop.” She breathes, but tugs on my hair to pull my head level with hers and kisses me again.

“Aye, we should.” I respond before latching my lips against her neck again, focused on leaving a love bite on her collarbone.

“This is…this is so unprofessional.” She moans, her warm hands going underneath my shirt. I nod against her neck, going back up to kiss her lips when I feel like I’ve made a sufficient mark on it. I’m incredibly unconcerned with everything that isn’t this moment, so much so that I do not even notice the door to the studio opening up and people trickling into the room.

“Oi! What the hell is going on here, little brother?” Liam’s voice booms across the room and Emma and I separate as if we’ve electrocuted the other. Suddenly, every single one of my band-mates show up, knowing looks on all of their faces.

“Look here, Robin. Killian’s fake girlfriend finally showed up.” Will teases, a stupid cocky grin spread across his face. “Pay up, then.” He says to Robin who shakes his head and digs into his pocket for a twenty-dollar bill and passes it to Will, who pockets it.

“I don’t know, that looks pretty convincing to me.” Robin says.

“Kil, do you mind not impregnating your fake girlfriend on our studio couch?” Graham says condescendingly and out of the corner of my eye I see Emma shoot the dirtiest look at him.

“Sod off, you gits.” I mutter, taking the guitar from the couch and walking across the room to hang it up again.

“You know we were so concerned that you didn’t want to go off to lunch with us. But now we see you had other pressing matters to attend to.” Liam laughs, his arms crossed against his chest. He has a stupid grin that I wouldn’t mind knocking off his face. From across the room I see Emma groan and stand up.

“Oh, knock it off, all of you.” she says, clearly fed up with my lot. “Fake girlfriend or not, I can still enjoy myself while I’m in this situation. Or is one of you going to tell me otherwise?” I grin naturally at how forceful she was, the confidence she exudes furthering my attraction to her. I look at Liam and his eyebrows are raised incredulously, the grin still spread across his face when he turns to look at me.

“Oh, I like her, little brother. You’re right, she is a dragon.”

“I hope he means that as a compliment.” Emma counters amusedly, her eyebrows raised at me.

“More or less.” I answer sheepishly. “Right, Emma this is everyone. Everyone this is Emma.”

She stays for what’s left of rehearsal and I can feel her lower her guard as she eases into the comfort she feels with the group. She looks at me throughout most of it, her eyes filled with wonder while I sing and mess around with the guitar. I’m weary, but I cannot deny that her fascination feels welcome. Even though I really have no idea what’s going on between us—if I feel anything for her, or if she feels anything for me—but for the time being, whatever I’m feeling is welcome.

-/-

I don’t see Emma for another two weeks after she came by rehearsal and during that break I actually felt kind of relieved. Spending time with her not only seems to cloud my better judgment, but it also makes me the target for most of the jokes my band-mates make. We had gone to the People’s Choice Awards last week, just not together. We both had to endure an endless queue of reporters while walking the red carpet, each of them asking the same variation of the same question. They were sneaky about it at first, the conversation starting naturally with my level of excitement about the show and the nominees, and when all those questions were over they’d slide in a question about Emma. Actual months of training went into my learning how to deflect those questions, because deflecting was all in Mary Margaret’s plan to tease the public—and the bloody incessant paparazzi—before Emma and I went explicitly public at the next major awards show, which just so happened to be tonight. Now, this wasn’t my first appearance at The Grammy’s, but it was the first appearance where the Rolly Jogers were actually nominated.

Needless to say, I was equal parts excited and borderline nauseous. To be honest, the fact that I was going public with Emma tonight was the furthest thing from my mind. All I could think about is how far the Jogers and I have come and how bloody bad I wanted to win that award, which is why when I was waiting for Emma outside her house and I saw her walk out in a embroidered black dress the air nearly got completely knocked out of my lungs.

She looked absolutely stunning. I must have been standing like a fool as I ogled at her but I was almost transfixed by her appearance. The embroidery of her dress was stitched onto sheer fabric and it made it look like the patterns of the dress were drawn directly on her soft skin, the long dress was belted around the middle and the sheer skirt fell loosely around her legs, emphasizing her curves magnificently. She smirked at me because she knew that she looked incredible, and she knew that I thought that she looked incredible. But how couldn’t I think that? One look at how her golden hair fell down the side of face, covering her eyes in an air reminiscent of Veronica Lake—I only know about Veronica Lake because my father used to watch old black and white movies on the telly everyday, and over the years I became very fond of her—is enough to confuse the lass with a siren.

“Swan, you look fantastic.” I said, standing like a bloody dumbstruck fool in front of her. She grinned at me and grabbed my arm in response.

“Thank you. You clean up very nice, as well.” She said as I opened the door to the limousine for her.

Whatever happened between picking her up at her house and the actual awards show is a blur to me. We had to wait the entire night to know if we had won Album of the Year or not and I almost went berserk with anticipation. Were it not for Emma’s hand grasping mine whenever she felt me on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I don’t think I’d be in this after party right now.

I’d be comatose.

Fortunately, we did win. And I wish I could tell you what happened when we went upstage to accept our award but it’s honestly a huge fucking blur to me. The moment the presenter said that we had won I turned automatically towards Emma—who had let out an excited wail that reminded me more of a banshee than a siren—and kissed her before the lads and I basically ran up to the stage to claim our award.

It was all a blur, an absolute blur.

And now, I’m absolutely plastered sitting on a booth next to Emma—who is just as drunk and is resting her head against my shoulders to lessen the impact of alcohol—at her friend Ruby Lucas’s after party. Lucas is not an actress by any means, but she just so happens to be the daughter of Hollywood royalty and has built an empire around her reality TV show.

I’ve seen it, it’s absolute trash and I’m obsessed with it.

We’ve been at this party for about three hours now, the music is loud and the use of questionable substances is the probable reason behind the kilometric line to the women’s bathroom. And while I’m having a hell of a time, in all honestly, all I want to do is go home and cuddle with my Grammy. I’m fazed and still in awe about how the night has turned around. I look around me and all I see is superficial, materialistic people that this city has swallowed up and consumed entirely. I look at Emma and reflect on myself and think about the luck we had to be swallowed up by this city, but spat out back onto reality. We came from virtually nothing and we became consumed by the same superficiality that consumes everyone else here, but we’ve climbed out of it. We are the lucky ones.

“Swan, do you want to go home?” I ask loudly, nudging Emma’s sleepy form next to me. She mutters incoherencies but nods her head, so I take it as a yes and help her up. This must be an incredible sight to behold to a third party onlooker, I honestly don’t know which one of us is drunker right now, but somehow we make it back to the limousine and make our way back home.

“How sad is it that you’re the best boyfriend I’ve ever had?” She says after we’ve been in the car for a while. Bloody Los Angeles traffic, we’ve been stuck in the same spot for fifteen minutes. I look over at her noticeably tired self and smile at her.

“Considering that I’m not your real boyfriend, I’d say pretty sad.” I agree whole-heartedly, my tone making her roll her eyes despite the grin that formed on her face.

“Yes, pretty sad.” She nods. Her forehead is pressed up against the window, making the city lights cast shadows on her skin. I cannot deny that the woman is absolutely gorgeous in my eyes.

“I take it your ex wasn’t exactly Prince Charming?” I prod, hoping to get to know Emma Swan a little better.

“Neither are you.” I’m surprised she didn’t deflect the question. That seems to be a common trait with her. “You’re a pirate.” She grins, looking at me for the first time since we got in the backseat.

“How am I a pirate?” I ask, genuinely interested in what she has to say. I scoot over closer to her and she shrugs before answering me.

“You just are.” She says plainly.

“Very convincing argument you’ve got there, Swan.” I tease, which makes her knit her eyebrows together in an annoyed look I’ve come to realize is meant just for me. “How am I the best boyfriend you’ve ever had?” She eyes me before she answers and I can tell that her gaze is unfocused and she is still inebriated.

“Well, for starters you’re very handsome and talented.” She responds and I grin back at her. It’s nice to know that she finds me just as handsome as I find her beautiful.

“I like the way this is going.” I say, my confident—although she might say it’s cocky—tone of voice making the annoyed look flit across her features again.

“Shut up.” She says as she playfully swats at my arm.

“No, continue.” She gives me a deadpan look and a dramatic sigh, but decides to continue anyways.

“Second, you’re not with me for my fame.”

“Debatable. There is some ulterior motive here, Swan. As you are well aware.”

“Can I finish?” She slurs her words a bit there and part of me wonders if I should stop her, maybe she’ll say something she’ll regret tomorrow. However, I am just as drunk as she is so maybe I won’t even remember what was said in this car ride and if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my brief time with her is that I shouldn’t interfere with her drawn out speeches. Yes, there have been several.

“Yes, my apologies.”

“And you’re incredible in bed.” She hums simply, her eyes closed as her head bobs lightly from side to side. I almost cough out the ginger ale I had sipped out of my cup and spat it all over her dress. What on earth is she talking about? We haven’t done anything—not for lack of wanting—so how could she possibly know about my bedroom performance.

“How could you possibly know that?” I ask, my breath still ragged from the near-choking incident I had just experienced.

“You were incredible in my dream and that’s how I know.” She hums again. I don’t think she knows what she just told me, so I voice out her statement again just so she could get some semblance of what she just said.

“You had a sex dream about me?” Emma’s eyes snap open. Her green eyes meet my blue eyes, and they are wide and full of evident embarrassment. Her hands quickly cover her face and she scoots a few inches away from me.

“Oh, god. I can’t believe I just said that.” Her voice comes out muffled through her hands. “I’m so embarrassed.” She tells me, her green eyes peeking through her fingers.

A sex dream? To be honest, I feel incredibly surprised and strangely pleased. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about her once or twice—or three or four times, but really, who’s counting—in the past months, so the fact that she’s had the same thoughts of me is extremely pleasing. Pardon the pun.

“Swan, you have no reason to be embarrassed.” I chuckle at her evident mortification. If only she knew the things I’ve done while I’ve thought of her, perhaps the lass wouldn’t feel so embarrassed. Perhaps I should tell her, just to put her out of her misery. The traffic we’re stuck in is horrible enough without her horrified attitude and awkward tension filling the air. “Okay, if we’re being honest here. I’ll have to tell you that I had to relieve myself after our kiss during rehearsal two weeks ago and the whole time I thought only of you.”

Emma finally takes her face out of her hands and she shakes her head at me, her face trying to rid itself of the small smile forming across her lips.

“We’re going too far with this.” She says, crossing her arms against her chest and I feel the walls rapidly building back up. I have to do something before she completely decides to shut me out. The last few weeks have been actually pleasant and I cannot have her shut me out when we have to convince the whole world that we’re mad about each other.

“You think so?”

“Don’t you? Christ, Killian we’ve made out, I’ve had sex dreams about you, and you’ve jerked yourself off while thinking of me. I think we’re pushing the envelope here.” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose with her index finger on one side and her thumb on the other.

“I think we’re just rather suffering from a drought that’s all.” I say and make her scoff.

“That’s the understatement of the year.”

I stay quiet after that, mulling over how I was going to go forward with the proposition that I have in mind.

“Maybe we should—” I start but she cuts me off immediately, almost as if she knew what I was thinking this whole time.

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

“Look, hear me out. We obviously have some tension going on here, Swan, and I think it would be beneficial to both of us if we engaged in some friendly activities. We’ve both thought about it, why not go all the way?” I urge, scooting closer to her so my knee touches her body, my hand resting naturally on her thigh. She takes my hand in hers and lifts it off her thigh before letting it drop onto an empty space in the seat.

“Because I don’t want to actually date you. I’m not attracted to you, nor do I have any romantic inclinations towards you.” She sighs, clearly exasperated.

“And that’s precisely the beauty of it! We can help each other out without the added burden of a relationship.” She doesn’t say anything and just drops her head against the headrest. I know that she’s thinking about it, and that she knows I’m right. Perhaps one night together is just what we need. “Come on, Swan. We’d simply be friends with benefits.” She turns her head towards me and fixes her eyes on mine. I can feel her mind racing a mile a minute but I know that I’ve got her hooked when a grin starts creeping onto her face again.

“I didn’t realize that we were friends.” She breathes, her eyes dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before meeting my eyes again. I grin at her as she takes my hand from the seat and places it on her thigh again.

“Brilliant, just the benefits then.”


	5. Chapter Five- F.W.B.

A/N- I mean I should probably be studying for my last final but the only way i’ve been able to keep my sanity is by writing after every exam so this is why you have this chapter now. Also I'm fairly new at ao3 does anyone know how to change the tag from complete to work in progress? -Steph   
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I don’t even have time to consider changing my mind about all this because the next thing I know, Killian’s mouth is attached to my neck and I can’t help but let out a moan. God, I love it when he does that. I love that I can feel every single one of my pores alight with fire, every single one of the hairs on my skin standing on edge. Out of the corner of my eye I see the partition roll up behind the driver, giving us our privacy. Meanwhile, Killian has been busy tracing kisses along my jaw as his hand presses against my core, adding pressure where I need it most.

“Fuck, I want you, Swan.” He murmurs against my ear before he turns my head towards him and kisses me full on the lips. I want him too. I want more than the pressure he’s adding against me, I want more than his hand fisted in my hair, and more than his lips moving perfectly against mine. “I’ve wanted you since I first saw you this afternoon.” He confides as his hand drops from where it was nestled inside my hair and finds the zipper on the back of my dress. He undoes it in one swift motion and pulls down the top part of my dress down to my torso.

“Get on top of me, lass.” He demands with a raggedy breath, his hands caressing my legs underneath the sheer skirt as I move to straddle him.

“You’re bossy.” I tell him and he laughs. I like it that he’s dominant and that he’s telling me what to do right now. But of course, I’d never admit that to him out loud, he’d never let me see the end of it. He grins at me and with his hand on the back of my head, he pulls my head towards his and kisses me again, moaning against my lips as I move my core against the unmistakable erection that’s straining against his pants. He drops his head against the headrest, a string of curses leaving his mouth as I keep grinding on top of him.

“Are you okay?” I ask, unable to keep the smirk off of my face.

“Aye, you bloody minx. I am, but just barely.” He says before pulling himself back up to me and attaching his lips against my collarbone and dropping kisses all along my chest. God, this feels so good—and yes—a million times better than my dream.

“I like this.” He says about my bra as he pulls a little ways back from me, both his hands cupping my breasts through the fabric. He grins as I moan when he lightly thumbs his finger over my nipple against the fabric. “You like that, don’t you Swan?” I nod, not able to say anything due to him dragging his tongue on my skin along the edge of the fabric. The anticipation is driving me crazy and I’m about to tell him just that, but he must have sensed that I was getting fed up with him teasing me because I feel his tongue finally swirl around my nipple before he nips lightly on it, making me moan rather loudly.

“If he didn’t already know what we were up to, he definitely does now.” He laughs against my skin.

“Are you going to fuck me or not, Killian?” I ask exasperatedly, grinding my core against his hard on if only to release some of the tension my body is feeling.

“Are you getting restless, Swan?” He asks, his breath hot against my skin as he drags his lips against it.

“I’m just wondering if you’re going to go through with it, since you seem to be having more fun by teasing me.” I say while tugging on his hair, pulling his head back so his gaze meets mine.

“Maybe I just like riling you up.” He says and his grin is borderline wicked as I suddenly feel his fingers slip inside of my folds, making me momentarily lose my train of thought. God, that feels good. “Not so tough now, are you Swan?” He murmurs as his fingers slide out of me. I almost protest at the withdrawal but he rapidly thrusts them back into me, settling into a rhythm that’s sure to drive me insane. I bite my lip just to refrain from moaning loudly, his every thrust undoing me further. My head is nestled tightly into the crook of his neck, my mouth alternating between breathing heavily and leaving a mark on the base of his neck. I can feel the orgasm build quickly inside of me, part of me embarrassed that he’s making me come undone so soon and the other part of me incredibly ready to fall over the edge again. It’s been so long since I was intimate with someone that it’s a wonder I’m lasting as long as I am.

“Let go, love.” He says hoarsely and that’s all it takes. With a muffled scream I comply with his command almost instantly, the orgasm washing over me intensely. My breath comes out in sporadic bursts, as I struggle to regain my composure. I feel him laughing and I look up only to be met by his trademark smug grin.

“I knew you’d be a screamer.” He says, his smug grin getting wider. I roll my eyes at him and slide off his lap and kneel on the floor in front of him. 

Two can play this game, I think as the smug grin dissipates off his face into a look of sheer awe, his chest rising quickly with anticipation. I make quick work of his belt and undo his zipper, and he lifts his hips to help me in lowering his pants and boxers down to his calves. Without thinking I lick the palm of my hand and take his cock into it—relishing in the fact that my sleeping consciousness hadn’t imagined the size of his member—and start gliding my hand down his length.

“Not so tough now, are you Jones?” I say echoing his earlier taunt in response to his now slack jawed look. He shakes his head, his eyes locked squarely with mine as I slowly take him into my mouth. He gives a low groan, his eyes rolling into the back of his head, which he drops onto the headrest. He threads his hand into my head as I take him deeper into my mouth, his hand fisting around my hair guiding me up and down his shaft. I hear him drop a slur of unintelligible curses out of his mouth, his breath hitching as I bob up and down his length, alternating between sucking in my cheeks and swiping my tongue around the underside of it.

“You’re fucking incredible, Swan.” He lets out gruffly, his accent thicker. I know he’s getting close, the familiar saltiness of his pre-cum and the tightening of his balls alerting me to it. Opening my eyes, I take the sight in front of me. His eyes closed shut on the head that’s tilted back on the headrest as far as it can go, his teeth biting on his lips to keep from screaming out. “I want to hear you.” I say, as I pull back my mouth from his cock, grinning at the pained expression on his face due to my withdrawal.

“Swan.” His voice strains out, reprimanding me for the loss of contact. I grin wider if possible before I take him in my mouth again, adding my hand into the mix, not really caring how sloppy I’m getting or how sticky it all feels. He moans my name then, grabbing on my hair tightly before letting me know that he’s going to cum.

“Swan, if you don’t get out now I won’t be able to hold off any longer.” But I keep at it, wanting to feel him inside me. I deep-throat him one more time before he lets go, his seed salty and bitter in my mouth and my name a hoarse whisper on his lips.

What happens between me wiping the saliva off my face with the back of my hand and getting out of the limo is a blur. After that all I remember is Killian telling the driver to take us straight to his apartment and spending the rest of the ride kissing each other. It could have been ten minutes later or it could have been ten hours later, but all I knew is that suddenly we were outside his building and the tension was boiling between us. The moment the elevator doors closed and the car lurched upwards towards the penthouse, his lips were on mine again, his hands reaching under my ass and lifting me up against the wall. My legs instinctively wrapped around his middle and he walked us out of the elevator, our lips still attached to one another’s. Instead of reaching for his keys, he pressed me up against the wall next to his door, his hands unzipping my dress again and pulling down my bra before palming my bare breast. I was basically half naked before he opened the door and made our way inside.

“Do you want anything?” He breathes, his lips momentarily withdrawing themselves from mine. Really? Now is when he decides to be a good host?

“Yeah. I want you to give me those benefits you promised.” I say, crashing my lips against his again.

We tumble into his bedroom and he all but pushes me onto the bed. He takes off my shoes, slips off my dress, unhooks the clasp of my—probably ruined—bra, tugs off my panties and throws them across the room. He stands above me, staring at my naked body—and if I wasn’t completely drunk and turned on, I would’ve started to feel really insecure by now.

“What?” I ask him, desperate for his touch and so over his teasing.

“You’re just bloody gorgeous.” He says before hooking his arm around my calves and pulling me towards the edge of the bed. Before I have time to realize what he’s going to do I feel his mouth against my center, his tongue lapping and fucking my already wet self. He’s down there for a while, his mouth working furiously against me, making me come undone once again. Part of me thinks we’re done and that I couldn’t possibly take another go at it, but I hear him fumbling through the things in his drawer and the unmistakable sound of a wrapper being opened and a condom being slipped on.

“Do you still want this?” he asks genuinely, standing in front of me. He knows as well as I do that after this there’s no going back. Not that there was any going back when I swallowed his cum or when he made me cum twice in the past hour, but that’s nuance. Sex is all the way, it’s the three bases being run with what’s basically a coworker at this point.

Fuck it.

“I do.” I say and that’s all he needs. In one swift motion he has slid into me and is moving inside of me, filling me up with every delicious inch of his cock. He’s vocal, and he alternates between telling me how amazing I feel and how tight I am, but I don’t care. All I know is that what I’m feeling right now is so sinfully good that it’s probably enough for me to black out at any second. I honestly don’t remember how long it lasts before I feel the build-up again and my walls clench around his member, my orgasm making my body spasm sporadically and taking him down the edge with me.

We passed out almost immediately after that, but the moment the first ray of light started creeping in through his window, my eyes snapped open and I knew that I had to get out of his apartment as soon as possible without him noticing my absence. We might have slept together and we might want this “friends with benefits” deal going on, but I will not wake up in his arms. Friends, don’t do that.

I start tiptoeing around the room, trying aimlessly to find wherever he threw my clothes mere hours ago. However, even with the slight light that was seeping in through his windows, it was almost futile to find every article of clothing. Part of me wondered if he had thrown them out of the window.

“Swan, get back into bed. You’re not being stealthy.” Killian sighs exasperatedly from the bed, his voice making me jump.

“I’m not one to cuddle, Jones. I think it’s best if I go home.”

“Don’t be such a prat, Swan. You’ll need your rest before you can walk properly again.” I can almost hear his smug grin in his voice. I don’t know if I want to slap it off his face or kiss it off instead. Incidentally, the fact that I want to kiss him again is precisely the reason why I need to go home.

“Swan, don’t make me come get you.” He says again, before pushing a button on his nightstand, making metal blinds slowly dim out the light coming in through the windows until his room is pitch-black. Now I’ll never find my dress.

Asshole.

“Fine.” I say, walking back towards the bed—not before hitting my shin with the corner of it, cussing loudly and making him laugh—plopping back on the mattress, and passing out again.

-/-

I don’t know who composed the Marimba ringtone but I think it’s my destiny to kill them.

“Swan, shut it off.” Killian groans next to me. He’s obviously not a morning person. I leave the bed and start making my way towards the sound of my phone. I can’t see anything, much less the way to the living room.

“I’m going, Killian. Jesus.” This is ridiculous, how big is this master bedroom? How can he possibly maneuver his way around this pitch-black room? My phone stops ringing for a second and I’ve lost the only way outside of the black maze that is Killian Jones’s bedroom. I’m walking back to the bed when Marimba goes off again.

Why do I even have that ringtone?

“Emma, for god’s sake silence your bloody phone!”

“I would if I could bloody see! But I’m basically re-enacting The Miracle Worker here, Killian!” I shout back angrily, having half a mind to hit him with the first thing I find, when the blinds start going back up again and bright sunlight starts seeping into the room again.

God, what time is it? I think as I finally walk out to the living room and find my phone inside my purse.

“Yes, Mags?” I say. I should’ve known it was Mary Margaret.

“Emma, where are you? We were supposed to meet at Nobu an hour ago.” Mary Margaret’s voice chastises me through the phone. I totally forgot I had to meet her today. I don’t even know what time it is.

“Shit, I forgot. I overslept.” I say, looking around Killian’s living room for something I can wear. I don’t feel completely comfortable just standing buck-naked in the middle of his apartment. I settle for a fleece blanket that’s on his sectional sofa, wrapping it around my chest.

“Emma, it’s three in the afternoon. Oversleeping is putting it mildly.” Shit, I can’t believe I slept so much and in Killian’s apartment nonetheless. Are we going to have a thing? Is this going to be a legitimate thing where we sneak around and fuck like rabbits? Or was he just planning on having a one-night stand?

“I know. I had a late night.” And copious amounts of sex with the one guy I shouldn’t have had sex with.

“How did the Lucas party go last night?” She asks me.  
“It was fun.” I say quietly, not that I remember most of the party anyways.

“David asks if you’ve heard from Killian. He’s tried his cell a couple of times but he can’t get a hold of him.” She continues, but I barely register what she says because Killian has walked out of the bedroom completely naked and even though we had sex last night, it’s as if I’m seeing him for the first time again.

“Emma?” Mary Margaret says my name and snaps me out of my reverie. I press my legs together to try and control the want that’s settling between them. He cocks his eyebrows suggestively and walks towards me. I know the look on his face.

“No, I haven’t.” Liar.

“Are you guys going to see each other today?” She asks me and I barely register the question because Killian has brazenly tugged off the fleece blanket from my body and kneeled in front of me, settling his face between my legs again.

“I haven’t talked to him yet. I don’t think so, though.” I say, trying my hardest to stifle a moan as his mouth works against my center again.

“You two seem to be getting along.” I hear Mary Margaret tell me on the phone, but all I can focus on is the fact that Killian is sucking on my clit and fingering me right now.

He’s absolutely ridiculous.

“He’s not that bad.” I tell her, trying to keep my voice steady as he pulls me down and fingers me deeper.

“The press seems to thing you guys make an incredible couple.” She continues and I take the cushion that’s next to me and bite it to keep from moaning.

“Except it’s not real.” I manage to say. I glare at Killian whose gleeful gaze is locked on mine.

“It could be. He’s very handsome, and I think you guys would make a good team, don’t you think?” Why is she still talking to me? Why does she want me with Killian anyways? She probably just wants to get closer to David Nolan, no doubt.

“Mags, are you talking to me as my friend or publicist?” I breathe, not sure how I’ve been able to keep on the ruse for so long. Killian is going to make me cum any second and I can’t be on the phone with her when that happens.

“A bit of both. Are you okay? You sound breathless.” She asks concerned.

“I’m fine. Can I call you back?” I ask quickly, failing miserably at keeping my voice calm and trying my best to keep the orgasm that’s moments away at bay.

“Yeah, sure.” She says and I end the phone call, throwing my phone across the sectional couch and letting Killian Jones’s handiwork consume me again.

When I get home that night, my body is so sore that I’m not sure I could ever have sex again. I mean, I know I can but goddamn.

I’ve lost count of how many times we had sex today.

Killian Jones fucked me senseless and only one thing I know for sure, it’s definitely more than a one-time thing.

-/-

January goes by fairly quickly, as quickly as it could with award shows almost every weekend and sneaking around to have sex with my fake boyfriend almost every night. Mary Margaret keeps telling me how impressed she is with my performance, the fact that Killian and I seem to be in an actual relationship blowing her away.

If only she knew that after every after party we end up in one of the other’s respective homes, whichever is closest. We’ve even gotten past mindless sex now, we hang out like normal friends do. We’ve gone to bars, the movies, and parties together. The most impressive, however, is that we can hang out one-on-one without wanting to ring each other’s necks in the process.

The past month has been a whirlwind, mostly because I’m starting to feel very comfortable around Killian. He knows that I was adopted now; it just slipped one night—after the Golden Globes, I think—as we were tangled in bed, my head resting against his rising chest in post-coital bliss. He said that he had figured something like that happened to me, and proceeded to tell me about his dad passing and growing up in England with Liam in their aunt’s house, just off the coast.

I still haven’t told him everything that happened with Neal and how I ended up in rehab, though. But he understands why I’m reserved. When I’m ready to tell him something about myself and he never pries for more information. And whether he does so purposefully or not, I’m grateful that he leaves the choice of knocking down my walls up to me, and no one else.

I’d be lying if I didn’t consider Killian Jones my friend now, but I’d also be lying if I didn’t enjoy his company just as much as the benefits provided. I’m not falling for him, I don’t think. Yes, he’s fun, caring, and quite honestly a perfect match to my wit, but I can’t fathom being anything more than what we are right now with anyone, and much less with Killian Jones. Besides, he’s made it perfectly clear that what we have is strictly a friendship with benefits.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Even though lately the sex has been far less reminiscent of two rabbits humping and more like two people actually being one with the other. Nor is it important that the last few times I’ve been at his house—or he’s been at mine—all we’ve done is make out and binge watch Netflix together. And don’t mind that right now, as I wait for him to pick me up in the limo and make our way to the Academy Awards I am a complete nervous wreck, because I don’t feel anything for him. I really don’t. I have no romantic inclination towards Killian Jones whatsoever, regardless of how this all may seem and look.

We’re friends, nothing more than that.

Okay, we’re friends who have sex, but really it’s nothing more serious than that.

I smooth down the front of my champagne colored dress, feeling anxious because it seems like my breasts are going to pop out of my strapless sweetheart neckline at any moment, and I can barely breathe in this dress. But it’s vintage Oscar de la Renta and I had to wear it, I had to.

Killian rings the doorbell and when I open the door I see him take a sharp intake of breath, and I honestly can’t help but wonder if whatever I’m starting to feel for him, he’s starting to feel for me. I shake the thoughts out of my head and give him a smile instead.

“You look dapper.” I tell him, eyeing his tailored tux and approving of it even though his lapels seemed to be layered in velvet. He doesn’t say much, he just smiles at me and offers me his arm, which I gladly take. Isn’t he going to say anything about how I look? No, you look bloody stunning, Swan? This dress is worth, at the very least, forty thousand dollars, and he’s just going to completely overlook how amazing I look in it? “You okay, there?” I ask him once he’s slid in the limo and takes a seat next to me. He nods and smiles at me.

“You don’t seem okay. It normally doesn’t take you this long to tease me about what I chose to wear or how I’m wearing my hair.”

“Your hair is perfect, Swan.” He smiles at me. God, what is up with him today? He’s never this quiet. In fact, he’s always ready to jump into the conversation with a snarky remark or a snide comment. I’m not sure I like this quiet, stoic side of him.

“So, you hate the dress?” I ask, trying to gauge a reaction from him. Not that I care about what he thinks of my dress or anything, it’s just that this would be much less awkward if we were having an actual conversation.

“No, not at all.” He says absentmindedly, switching between looking out of the window and scrolling through social media on his phone.

“Kil, what is up with you? Why are you so quiet?” I ask and he rolls his eyes at the sound of my exasperated voice, a smirk finally making it’s way back to his face. His undeniably attractive face. Not that that means anything, of course. 

“Perhaps, I can’t seem to articulate a compliment that will do you justice tonight, Emma.” So I do look good, then? I think as his eyes meet mine for the first time during this entire conversation and I sense the nervousness behind his voice. He looks away quickly, his hand going to scratch the back of his neck instead.

“Emma? You never call me Emma.” I taunt him. If he’s nervous then he probably feels the same way about me that I do about him. Not that it matters, we’re friends and friends don’t like each other like that.

Then again, friends don’t kiss each other like we’ve been kissing each other and friends definitely do not have sex together multiple times a week.

God, this is a mess.

“There’s a first time for everything, Emma.” He emphasizes my name and not to brag, but I love the way his voice says my name. Somehow I can’t stop thinking about kissing him, but that’s not what we’re supposed to be doing. The whole thing about this is that we’re here for the benefits, to satisfy our carnal urges not to kiss in broad daylight with no alcohol to excuse those urges.

There are limits to this…thing. Whatever the hell it is.

“Like you being speechless? That’s a first.” I tease him and he grins at me.

“Aye, that’s a first.” We fall back into a much easier silence, the nervous tension from before being lifted from the air around us. 

“I really hope that reporter from Royal Entertainment isn’t here tonight.” I say, simply to start a new conversation and have him talk to me again.

“Who, Lilith Page?” he asks and I nod.

“Yes, that one. She’s been vicious towards me this awards season.” His hand makes his way to my dress, where the slit of the fabric gives way to my bare thigh. His hand stills as the contact with my bare skin and I’m sure he wasn’t expecting to feel that, because he swallows thickly before regaining his composure. His thumb grazes lightly against my skin, tracing light circles against it.

“Aye, she’s pushy. I’ll come to your rescue tonight if you need me to.” He says comforting me. No one has ever said that to me.

“I’ll never need you to.” I say, trying to muster a tone of voice that covers my gratitude. He doesn’t need to know that I find him comforting, or that I care about him in any way more than the relationship we have right now. It must have worked because he laughs and his hand leaves my thigh as he raises both his arms in mock surrender.

“Alright. I’ll make sure to remember that, Swan. If she drills you tonight, you’re on your own.” I laugh with him, trying to rid my thoughts of how much I want his hand to be on my thigh again. We fall into an easy silence once more. I look out of the window and I notice that we’ve got at least ten more minutes till we get to the theater.

“The lads and I are going on tour in March.” His voice interrupts my thoughts.

“I know, you’ve told me.”

“Why don’t you ever let me finish?” He teases, making me grin widely.

“I would’ve thought you were used to it by now.” I tell him and he shakes his head at me.

“As, I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted. I was just wondering if you’d like to come with us.” He wants me on the road with them? Me? I know we’ve been having sex for the past month, but this seems entirely too serious.

“Oh, you want to keep this thing going on the road then?” I ask him, insinuating that the only reason he’d want me to go on tour with them is so he can keep whatever we have between us going. He shakes his head and gives me a rueful smile before looking at me seriously.

“Swan, surely you must know that you mean more than just a good shag to me.” His blue eyes bore into my green ones, and if I wasn’t completely confused as to whatever it is he feels for me, I’d say that he was trying to communicate that he wants something real with me.

But we both know that’s not actually going to happen.

“I do?” I ask, and I immediately wish my voice hadn’t come out so breathless and full of longing.

“Absolutely, you’re a brilliant friend.” See? There it is.

Friends. We are just friends.

“So, we’re friends now?” I tease, trying to recover from the way my heart fell down to my stomach.

Friends, just friends.

“I would hope so.” He tells me, giving me a lopsided smile.

“That’s good to know then.”

“So, will you join us this summer, then?” He asks hopefully, but I really don’t know how good that will be for us to do. We have a decent thing going on right now, I really don’t want it to get any more serious than it already is. It’s already scaring the crap out of me.

“I’ll think about it. I still don’t know what Mags has planned for me this summer.” I say hastily, wanting to shut down the topic.

“I’m not sure she’d object.” He says, trying to convince me to say yes.

“I’ll let you know, okay?” I answer with an air of finality. His eyes widen and I see that he understands that that’s all I would say on the matter. He nods and goes back to scrolling through his phone, but I can tell that he wants to say something more to me but he just doesn’t know how to articulate it.

“Are you nervous about presenting tonight?” He asks moments later.

“No.” I’m nervous to be around you, though. I’m nervous about the sudden development of feelings I’m having towards you and the possibility that you’re developing the same feelings for me.

We arrive at the theater moments later and as the door to the limousine opens there’s a familiar deafening roar of hundreds of people chattering and trying to get the attention of the celebrities that are walking down the red carpet. I grab Killian’s hand, which by now I know is extended towards me to help me out of the car. We go through the same familiar motions we’ve gone through for the past months, answering the same questions, consciously acting as if we’re mad about each other. He gives me space to answer questions and kisses my cheek as we pose for questions. We play the role of our lives and convince everyone that we belong together, that we are the lucky ones, that we love each other.

I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve talked to already when we reach the person I was dreading the most to talk to, Lilith Page. I really don’t know what her problem with me is, all I know is that every time we talk to the other she asks questions that are entirely too personal and every time I leave feeling with the urge to punch her. Killian’s hand squeezes mine reassuringly as we reach her.

“You’ll be fine, Swan.” He whispers in my ear and I squeeze his hand back in response.

“If it isn’t America’s Sweethearts!” Lilith starts enthusiastically before she goes through the usual questions. Who are you wearing? How is the relationship going? Are we going to see you on the big screen soon? Killian, when is the new album coming out?

“Emma, I’ve got to ask. All of our viewers are curious as to how you’re fairing ever since you’ve been out of rehab. How is it going?”

“Well, Lilith, it’s only been three months since I’ve been out but I’ve never felt better. I just try to take it one day at a time and I honestly couldn’t do it without Killian. He’s been amazing.” I say answering her and looking up at Killian afterwards, smiling at him sincerely. He’s actually been really good for me, whether I want to accept it or not.

“I’m so glad to hear that you’re better. Hopefully we’ll get to see you in the big screen again. Tell me, what are your thoughts bout the Cassidy wedding?” The what?

“I’m sorry?”

“Royal Entertainment confirmed that indie actor Neal Cassidy—your former flame and reportedly the reason you ended up in rehab in the first place—tied the knot last weekend in Honolulu.” She clarifies and I swear a whole opened up underneath my feet. Neal is married? I struggle to keep my composure but I don’t even know how to begin. The world is muffled around me and I can see that she’s waiting for an answer but I don’t think I could answer her even if I tried. My mind is reeling and all I can think is how Neal—my Neal—is actually lost to me forever.

“Miss Page, I don’t mean to be rude but how on earth could you possibly think that’s a fair question to ask?” I hear Killian say next to me, clearly coming to my rescue as he promised earlier.

“It was public knowledge,” she counters defensively, “Royal Entertainment just wants to hear from Emma what she thinks about the whole thing, considering that the breakup is the alleged reason she ended up in rehab in the first place.”

“Public knowledge or not, it’s rude. Though, Emma might be a public figure or not, that’s still her private life and she doesn’t owe you any explanations.”

“So, you’re speaking for her now?”

“No, that’s not bloody well what I’m doing.” He counters fervently, “But when you stealthily attack my partner with questions you bloody well know not to ask, I will defend her till the ends of the earth.” He finishes and I am in complete shock and so is Lilith Page.

“It was nice talking to you.” I say before, grabbing Killian’s hand, turning away and moving along the red carpet. Ignoring the fact that I still have at least half a dozen more reporters and photographers to talk to, I make my way into the theater, Killian following closely behind me.

“Swan, are you alright?” he asks me concernedly as I sit down at the table that’s reserved for us.

“You didn’t have to do that.” I tell him, my voice wavering slightly. I still can’t believe that Neal is married nor can I believe that Killian just defended me like that.

“I told you I would.” He says quietly, wiping off a rebel tear that had fallen down my cheek.

“No one has ever done that for me.” I say quietly, not able to meet his gaze. His hand reaches towards my chin and guides it towards him, making it impossible to not look into his eyes.

“Are you alright? That’s all I care about.” He asks sincerely, his eyes boring into mine intensely.

“I’m just shocked, I had no idea.” I nod, bringing my hand up to cover the one he has against my cheek. “Thank you.” I tell him and he smiles at me.

“Anytime, Swan.” He counters, kissing my temple and hugging me close to him.


	6. Chapter Six- Across The Universe

A/N: Happy summer! I'm officially 1/3 a lawyer and 100% full child! I hope you are all feeling ok and not as dead from the finale as I am. I am so proud of Emma and her growth but also I am lying dead in a ditch overwhelmed by feels. Anyways, I hope you like this chapter! I had fun writing it -love steph  
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Chapter Six- Across The Universe

I wake up once again to the sound of waves crashing against the shore and I realize that instead of waking up alone, my arm is draped across Emma’s bare stomach, her back to me, and her body molded against mine in a perfect fit. It’s early, and I gander that it’s no earlier than seven in the morning by the way the sun streams into her room and reflects off of her sun-drenched hair.   
Last night was different than the rest. After making an appearance at the Vanity Fair After Party, we slinked back to Malibu where we walked along the shore and talked and talked until I felt like my jaw was about to run away on its own. We sat out there on the porch listening to the waves crash against the shore, never in silence, her back nestled against my chest with my arms around her. She finally told me about Neal, her complete story up until the moment she met me. I held her close as she cried, showing me a side of Emma Swan that I couldn’t have fathomed into existence. The sex as usual was extraordinary, maybe even better than before. I know I wasn’t alone in feeling the electricity in the air as I moved inside her, her jagged breath and moans setting the background music to the rhythm of our lovemaking. Because it was just that, when I moved inside Emma last night, I was making love to her and I don’t deny it. Which is why I am terrified.   
Absolutely scared shiteless.   
Of what I’m terrified I couldn’t possibly say. I could be terrified about the fact that I’m developing strong feelings for the lass. But I could also be terrified that she’s developing them for me. As she held onto me when she cried last night, I felt that she was holding onto me as more than comfort, but for dear life. She was choosing me as the person to open up to after all that has happened to her and unbeknownst to her, she was placing a burden on my shoulders that I was not worthy to bear, or prepared to bear.   
I don’t want to be another disappointment for her. I don’t want to be the source of her discomfort, I don’t want to be the source of her sadness, and given my track record, the fact that I am positively still in love with Milah, and the notion that whatever we have was doomed to fail from the beginning, I know that I can’t save Emma from heartbreak unless I nip whatever this is while it’s young and fragile.   
“Killian, I can practically hear you thinking.” Emma’s sleepy voice brakes my train of thought as they are trying to convince me that breaking things off with her is for the best. She turns to look at me with her bright green eyes, the smile on her face lighting them up with the familiar devious mirth that has slowly crept back into her gaze over the past weeks. I feel my breath hitch in my throat, whatever snarky remark I have for her die in the back of my mind before I’m able to say anything to her. I’m falling for her, headfirst and with rocks lining my pockets, sure to drown me in her laugh, in her everything if she lets me.   
Terrified, I am absolutely terrified.   
“Killian, are you okay?” she asks concerned and the only reply I can muster is to bring her face close to mine and kiss her. She kisses me back and, soon, I am ready for her. We fall into an easy rhythm with each other, her palms flat against my chest as she lifts herself slowly along the length of my shaft and my breathing mixing in tune with her moaning. As the sun rises, it fuses itself with the brightness of her hair and makes her look like a sunlit vision above me. It takes everything from my part to not let her bring me up with her, burning me with her brightness in the process.  
Tomorrow, I’ll end things tomorrow.  
-/-  
As I walk around my apartment later that day, I’m unable to rid myself of the thought of Emma Swan and the way she looked this morning. She looked free, happy, and as bright as the sunrise behind her. She looked content and at ease, almost as if she felt right at home. I can’t be her home, I think just as my phone buzzes next to me.   
“Liam?” I ask out loud when my brother doesn’t start talking the moment our call is connected. I can’t help but wonder why he’s calling me, seeing as he rarely ever does for something positive.   
“Killian, are you home?” Liam asks through the phone, his voice noticeably ragged and out of breath.  
“Aye.” I answer, knowing full well that he must be on his way to my apartment. Calling while he’s already here tends to be his defining characteristic.  
“Brilliant, open up.”  
I walk over and open up the door and sure enough, my older brother is right outside of it. Without saying a word he walks right past me and goes straight to my computer, and pulls up a video.  
“Hello to you too, Liam.” I say, shaking my head at him and at his noticeably excited self.   
“Sorry, this can’t wait little brother.” He says, not even bothering to look at me. I roll my eyes as he pats the couch next to him and he motions at me to sit.  
“Younger brother.” I sigh automatically.  
“Sod off, little brother.” The video plays and I immediately recognize it as my altercation with Lilith Page last night. Bloody brilliant, here we go. When it finishes and my vehement speech towards Page is no longer, I look up to an expectant Liam, his eyebrows raised incredulously.  
“Look, Liam. I hardly think that defending Swan, shows instability alright? It was a fuck-up and I apologize.” I start defensively but Liam just laughs and shakes his head at me, his hand resting condescendingly on my shoulder. “What in God’s name are you laughing at?” I ask him, my eyebrows knit in confusion.  
“It’s just so obvious, isn’t it?” A grin starts growing on his face but I have no idea what he’s going on about. If he’s not here to yell at me, then why is he here?  
“Obviously not, because I’m not following what’s so amusing to you.” I tell him and he replays the video and points at me then at Emma.  
“Killian, you love her. Are you seriously trying to tell me that you don’t? Look at the way you look at her! It’s obvious, little brother.” He says animatedly. I know why he’s happy that something like this were to happen to me, ever since Milah left me I’ve been a broken shell of a man. That is, until Emma came into the picture.   
“Younger bro—wait, hold on. Love? Don’t be idiotic, Liam. I don’t love Emma Swan.” It takes everything in me to not laugh at him. Me? In love with Emma Swan? Absolutely not. I can admit that I care for the lass, that she has quickly become my friend, and yes I do rather enjoy having sex with her almost every night. But that doesn’t mean that I love her. Not in the least.  
At least…I don’t think I do.  
“Bullshit, Killian, you do. I was wondering if it was true, considering how close you’ve both been acting, how you don’t want to rip each other’s throats off anymore, and this video confirms my suspicions.” Gods this is exactly the reason why Emma and I have to call the sexual tryst between us off. It’s starting to gain unwanted attention, and the last thing I want to do is to be on my couch on a Monday afternoon explaining to my older brother that I do not want anything to do with anyone right now, much less with Emma.   
I’m not ready for any type of commitment.   
“Liam, we are just friends. I care for her, aye, but I do not love her.” I say standing up and heading for the kitchen to grab a beer, hoping that he’d let the subject go.  
“Why are you hanging out with her out of the times when you absolutely have to, then?” No such luck. He follows me into the kitchen and I take another bottle and open it up for him as a way to bide my time to give him a convincing answer.  
“It has something to do with proving myself to you lot, if I remember correctly. Convince us that you still care Killian!” I mock his earlier statement before taking a swig, relishing in the bitter liquid going down my throat and warming up my stomach.  
“Oh, sod off, Killian. You know we wouldn’t dream of keeping the band up without you.” Liam exclaims. I can tell that he’s very upset by the concept of me not having deep-seated feelings for Emma Swan. To be honest, even if I did tell him that she and I have been fooling around for the past couple of months would anger him more than thrill him. He’s so bloody forthright, he probably hasn’t ever been in a predicament like the one Swan and I are in.   
“You could’ve very well fooled me. Even if I could end what we have right now I’m not about to leave Emma out on the cold. She needs me.” I tell him and I’m not lying, Emma does need me to stick around so she can land auditions. She texted me earlier that after last night she’s been receiving scripts from producing companies. Not the big fish she’s wanting to fry, but she’s still auditioning for whatever she gets offered at this point, you know, within reason.  
“How is this supposed to make me believe that you don’t love her?” Liam asks and he’s making good use of fucking riling me up a wall.   
“Because it’s the bloody truth.” I tell him defiantly as I rest my back against the wall.  
“I don’t believe you.” Liam counters, his defiant voice matching mine.   
“Then believe the fact that I still love Milah.” I say and immediately I knew it was the wrong thing to tell him. Liam never liked Milah, he thought she was flighty and immature. He’d make an effort to stomach her for my sake, but I knew that he liked her as much as she liked him, meaning that were it not for me, their tolerance for each other was basically non-existent.   
But I loved her. I still do love her. She was everything I ever wanted in a partner. She was strong and ambitious—albeit perhaps too ambitious in hindsight—she had a thrill for life that I have never encountered in another soul. Milah was everything to me, and the day I came back from tour with the locks changed and my stuff in the hall it was the harshest blow to my chest that I’ve ever received.  
“Oh, Christ’s sake, Killian! It’s been a year!”  
“You think I don’t bloody know that, Liam? When the love of your life walks out on you, you can’t just get over it.” I’ve tried to do so. I’ve tried to get over Milah. I’ve gone through depression, fucking any brunette that came through my path, and nearly drank myself into oblivion, yet nothing can rip the love I have for her out of my heart.  
“Well, it’ll do you some good to start getting over her.” He says darkly. He harbors an even greater resentment for Milah now. After she nearly succeeded in derailing my life, I’m sure that Liam wouldn’t stomach even a painting of her. “Kil, I just want you to be happy and the way that in so little time Emma has been able to switch from the depressive fuck you were last year, makes me think that you could be happy with her.” I’ll give him that. Emma has done wonders for my mood—perhaps not for my drinking habits, but the lass can hold her liquor—and she’s helped me in feeling happier than I had all last year. However, I know that she is just as emotionally incapacitated as I am, especially now that news broke for her that Neal is married. She was a wreck last night, I wouldn’t move in on her in the state she’s in even if I did have any romantic inclinations towards her.  
She out of all the people I’ve encountered knows how hard it is to move on from someone when you’ve signed your heart completely to them. That’s probably something that Liam will never understand. He always has one foot planted firmly on the ground, a firm grasp in reality—he’s a fighter, not a dreamer—unlike me, who cannot find a way to love without loving completely, without signing over my heart as if I didn’t need it for my own wellbeing.  
“Easier said than done, mate.” I tell him quietly.  
“I know. I am allowed to worry about you though.”  
“I’ll be fine, Liam. I’m a survivor, you know that.” He smiles at me, understanding that I don’t want to talk anymore about the subject. Part of me thinks that I’ll never be able to get over the love I had for Milah—opening up my heart to that kind of love again just doesn’t seem like it’s in the cards for me—and even if that’s the case, I know that I’ll manage to survive one way or another.   
“Aye. Just think about it, though. You’re so thick sometimes that it’s incredibly possible that when you realize what you’ve had in front of you for so long is suddenly out of your grasp.” He talks about my relationship with Emma as if it were a real, tangible thing, when even we know that it’s not. How will I ever be able to lose a relationship that doesn’t feel real to the two people who are in it?  
“Liam, I will be fine.” I repeat firmly.   
Everyone knows that you can’t lose something you’ve never had.  
-/-  
It’s been two weeks and we’re well into March and Emma and I are still going at it. I’m a complete mess when it comes to her and whatever she wants from me, I do. Liam’s words ring in my ear every time I’m with her, and part of me is starting to believe that what he had said was true. Perhaps, I do love her. I certainly do love spending time with her, I love waking up to her glowing self in the mornings, playing video games with her after a particularly long day, while I’m still wired over the gig we had played, and I can’t get my head to calm down. Those nights always end with us positively plastered at four in the morning, with her straddling my lap on the couch, and her kisses making me feel drunker than the amount of beers I had ingested in the last two hours.   
“Do you think we’re getting too serious?” I ask her one night while she plays the latest Grand Theft Auto and bites her own lip as a result of her concentration.   
“For us to be serious, Killian, we’d have to be in a relationship.” She tells me, her gaze unwavering from the images on the television. I nod, fully knowing that she’s right. There isn’t anything here between us, just two friends who play video games and hook-up afterwards. That’s as far from serious as we can get. She sighs exasperatedly as her character gets gunned down and turns towards me, handing me the controller.   
“Right. I was just trying to gauge your opinion, lass.” I tell her as I take the controller from her hands and she proceeds to rest her chin on my knees, her eyes looking at me intently.  
“Do you want to call it off?” She asks quietly, cocking her head to the side and tracing circles on the fabric over my thighs. I bite my lip and am unable to meet her gaze. I was dead set on calling it off two weeks ago and now that she’s offering I’m not sure if I actually want that. Part of me knows that we shouldn’t jump into something serious given the fact that we’re both emotionally unavailable, however, part of me is terrified that if we call it off, I’ll lose the friendship I’ve developed with her over the past couple of months.  
“I just don’t want to fuck up what we have, Swan.” I concede quietly, finally meeting her gaze. I feel her shift onto her knees, her face now parallel with my chest and I instinctively go tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.  
“What do we have, Killian?” She whispers, her eyes widening apprehensively but whether if she’s gaining a trace of hope or giving into fear, I have no idea.  
“I’ve been trying to figure that out for weeks now.” I tell her, my hand shifting from her hair to the soft skin of her cheek. I see a blush start to creep from her neck up to her face, where it becomes flushed. Christ, I think, she really is beautiful.  
“We are friends, are we not?” she asks me, her hand creeping up to cover mine and moving it off of her face as she goes to sit next to me on the sofa. She doesn’t meet my gaze, her eyes focused on the lines on the palm of my hand instead.  
“Aye, I just don’t know if perhaps we’re starting to drift into uncharted territory.” I tell her and I notice that her chest starts rising up quickly, her breaths becoming shallower.  
“As in being more than friends?” She asks methodically, trying to understand the meaning behind every word.   
“Perhaps. It surely does feel like that, doesn’t it?” I say and her eyes finally come up and meet mine. I can sense that she’s just as terrified as I am, just as incredibly unprepared to be having this conversation as I am.  
“Sometimes.” She concedes, tugging at her hair nervously.  
“Aye.” I nod and I am a bit pleased to find out that she’s been having the same feelings that I have been having lately towards our situation—and most importantly, me.  
“Do you want more?” She asks, seemingly out of nowhere, making me stop dead in my tracks, not knowing how to answer her. It should feel natural that we both want to be together, it should emerge from a place of mutual understanding and want not from this place of unease and confusion.  
“I’m not sure it would be fair to ask that of you.” I tell her quietly and she nods.  
“Because you’re still in love with Milah?” she asks. Am I still in love with Milah? Practice and habit tells me that I still am, but is that really what I feel right at this moment? Of that I am not remotely sure. I want to say that I am but when I have Emma in front of me, the thoughts I have about Milah are increasingly minimal with the passing of each day that I am without her.  
“I’m just confused, love.” I say, knowing full well that it’s the truth. If I had both Milah and Emma in front of me, I don’t know whom I’d choose. Equal factors both make me want to choose one over the other, and equal factors make me hesitate on a final choice between the two. With Milah, it was us against the world. We were partners as well as lovers, but the deep-seated ache that she left in my heart when she abandoned me makes me hesitant to ever choose her. With Emma, the friendship that we’ve developed and the way she challenges me, makes me think that I’d choose her in a heartbeat. However, the idea of us jumping the gun and rushing into a relationship is most certainly doomed to backfire and losing her friendship is something I don’t want to risk.  
“It wouldn’t be fair for me to ask more of you either, you know.” She says as she starts to run her hand through the back of my hair. I close my eyes momentarily and permit myself to enjoy the caress.  
“Because of Neal?” I whisper, opening my eyes and looking at her. She merely nods. We ease into a silence for a moment, her hand still threading through my cropped locks, before she speaks up again.  
“Maybe we should take a break from all of this.” She says and I would be lying if I said that it didn’t feel like a wave of ice cold water didn’t just rush all over me.   
“Would you still come on tour if we did?” I ask hopefully, not knowing what this break entailed.   
“If you still wanted me there, then yes.” She answers me, grinning widely.  
“I do want you there.” I tell her sincerely. I notice her chest swell, as her smile gets wider—if possible.  
“Then I’ll be there.” She nods before kissing me out of habit. She pulls back, her eyes widened at the acknowledgement of her action. I pull her back towards me and kiss her again, my hand going to the small of her back before I ease her body to lie back on the sofa.   
“I’ll agree to your break if I can still kiss you on weekends.” She laughs and nods and I am in awe. She truly is so beautiful, her hair framing her face and neck like a wild halo around her. I absentmindedly lick my lips as I take the sight of her body in—her milky pale skin in contrast with her black dress, the freckles around her arms, the curves of her breasts as her chest heaves up and down, the way her eyes have darkened from vibrant green into a deep hunter green as the night progresseses—her smile falters just a bit and for the first time she seems nervous around me. “Do you think we could—you know—one last time?” I stutter out, feeling just as nervous as she probably does.   
“I’d like that.” She nods enthusiastically and that’s all I need to crash my lips onto hers again, relishing in the sweetness that has become such a familiar taste to me. She moans ardently against my lips as my tongue slips into her mouth and battles hers for dominance. After a few minutes of kissing her, I realize that I don’t want our last night to be a rapid, casual fuck on the couch. I stand up—almost laughing at the face she makes at the loss of contact—and pull her up towards me, scooping her up before she can protest, and carrying her into my bedroom. She kisses me all the way there, her legs wrapped around my middle as my hands supported her by grabbing handfuls of her fantastic bum.   
Dropping her on my bed she makes quick work of my belt and in mere moments my pants are pooled around my ankles. She kisses my lower abdomen, tracing her lips upwards along my skin as she slowly lifts my shirt until she finally tosses it off the edge of the bed.   
“Lay back, love.” I tell her and she complies, her hair fanning around her on the pillow, her gaze fixed on mine, and an eager smile on her lips.  
“Seeing as this is the last time we’ll be doing this, can I tell you a secret?” She asks while I’m tracing kisses along her chest, collarbone, and finally her neck.  
“Depends. Is it a dirty secret?” I whisper against her ear, nibbling her earlobe for good measure.  
“I’d like to think so.” She breathes, her hands grabbing fistfuls of the sheets alongside her, her back arching ever so slightly.  
“What is it?”  
“Ever since the first time, I’ve loved how bossy you are, how dominant.” Even in the darkness I can pinpoint the flush of her skin rising in embarrassment. I grin despite myself, loving that such a headstrong woman like Emma Swan, likes that I dominate her in bed.  
“Is that right, lass?” I ask, not really believing my ears. Emma merely moans in consent, her legs writhing in anticipation. “So if I told you to touch yourself, you would?” I feel the goose-bumps arising throughout her body. I honestly don’t know how long I’ll be able to wait before I can ravish her completely.  
“Yes, anything you wanted.” She moans and I feel my cock jerk involuntarily against my boxer-briefs. I’m definitely going to miss her.  
“I want to see you touch yourself, Swan.” I whisper, and sure enough her hand disappears beneath the waistband of her lace underwear. She moans as she works her hand fervently and my lips make contact with the sensitive skin of her breasts and my hands trace along her stomach as I bunch up her dress around her waist. I need more of her, I need to make her mine one last time. I pull her dress down, breaking her breasts free from the confines of her bra and I immediately latch my mouth against her rosebud nipple, making her moan rather loudly.   
“Please, Killian.” I hear her say above me. “I need more.” I heed her request and trace my free hand down her stomach and finding her underwear I tug them off and start fingering her. Her body writhes and squirms underneath me, responding instinctively to my touch. I don’t know how long it lasts but there’s a point when I can’t handle not being sheathed inside of her tight, warm center. Taking my fingers out of her—her dress probably ruined and still half on—I ready myself at her entrance and slowly start filling her up inch by inch until I am fully inside of her. I close my eyes and enjoy the way being inside her feels like—warm, tight, bloody fucking fantastic—before I start to move slowly, pouring everything I feel for her in every thrust I make. I grab her hand, and interlocking our fingers together, I pin it above her head, dropping my head to kissing her full on the lips. I crave every single sound that comes out of her mouth, every single movement that she makes in response to mine, every shallow breath she takes in order to regain her composure. Her eyes are closed tight like always, but tonight I want to look at her, tonight I don’t just want to fuck her like the countless times we’ve had sex before, I want to be one with her.   
“Look at me, love.” My voice sounds strained, the pleasure hitting me fiercely with every thrust, but nothing feels better than when she complies and her green eyes meet my blue ones. Her mouth parts in a small ‘o’ and her breaths get even shallower, her gaze locked intensely with mine and I know she’s as close as I am. She arches her back and I know that she’s almost at the edge. Taking her free hand, she dips it between us and finds her clitoris. I feel her start to add pressure against it and she’s so close. Her walls are clenching all around me, coaxing my orgasm with the anticipation of her own. The moment she jumps off the edge, I jump right along with her, her name emanating from my lips with a moan.   
A harsh pounding on the door wakes me up the next morning, Emma’s body laying half atop of mine. The woman, I’m convinced, can sleep through a tornado. I don’t know how I do it, but I manage to slide her body back onto the mattress with the only repercussion being a small scowl forming on her features. I smile at her sleeping self before standing up and pulling on my pajama pants and a t-shirt.  
I head across my apartment towards the door and when I open it the breath almost gets knocked out of me.   
“Hello, Killian.” Milah smiles at me, a small toddler on her hip. “This is Peter, your son.”

 

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A/N: Reviews make me the happiest in all the land! PS. I will not be held responsible for cliffhangers that my muse forces me to write. 

Don't hate meee!


	7. Chapter Seven- Fool's Gold

A/N: Sorry this took me soo long to update, but writer's block is real and I was completely stumped on how to introduce this next segment of the story! I hope you bear with me as things get less fluffy and much more complicated between these two! Hope you like the installment,as always it means the world for you guys to let me know your thoughts on the chapter! It means so much that y'all take the time to read my ramblings!  
-Steph  
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Chapter Seven  
Big, blue eyes. That’s all I could think about, that’s all I could see when I would close my eyes, tufts of spiky black hair and big, blue eyes. After waking up, realizing that Killian was no longer in the room, and getting dressed I walked out the room not expecting to see a flabbergasted Killian Jones holding a child, with tufts of spiky black hair and big, blue eyes. I was not expecting to see such a gorgeous woman sitting across him either. I was not expecting to feel the unmistakable pang of jealousy bubbling in the pit of my stomach at the sight of the seemingly picture perfect family in front of me.  
I had to clear my throat to make my presence noticed, my instinct guiding me to immediately mark some territory that I had somehow internalized into thinking that it belonged to me. Killian looks up surprised, almost like he had forgotten I was ever in the other room, almost as if he forgot that I even existed. The woman—whom I presumed was Milah, his ex—gave me a demure smile, failing slightly at covering her annoyance at my presence in Killian’s apartment. The toddler gave me a lopsided, drooling smile, to which I recoiled almost instantly seeing that I am at the stage in my life where I find babies borderline repulsive. I am hoping that my motherly instincts kick in the moment I push a little monster out, but right now the mere sight of them makes me queasy and my biological clock is a far cry from starting to tick—I have just recently turned twenty-five after all—but, at least the toddler seemed happy to see me.  
We stay in silence for an incredibly awkward length of time—save for Baby Demon babbling incoherencies—Killian was unable to find the words to start a conversation in which I am included, and Milah refusing to look at me in the eye.  
“I thought you were alone.” She says to him slowly, completely ignoring my presence. Killian scowls at her and I bite my cheek to refrain myself from saying a smartass remark. I can see why she wasn’t a fan favorite.   
“I’m not.” Killian snaps.  
“Obviously.” Milah responds haughtily, her English accent clipped and her disdain for me entirely evident. I swear if this weren’t such an awkward situation, I’d punch her in the face.   
“I’d thank you not to be rude to my—” Killian starts and my heart half swells at him coming to my defense again.  
“Girlfriend?” Milah scoffs as she interrupts him before giving my entire self a sweeping glance.   
“—Guest.” He continues, his lips pursed and eyes flaming. I won’t lie and say that the way he corrected her didn’t hurt me. I know full well that I’m not his girlfriend, but still. I thought I was more than just a guest. I feel uneasy being caught in the midst of the tension that’s palpable between them, and I suddenly cannot believe I’ve been standing here all this time. Wanting to get through the predicament I had somehow found myself in, I shake my head and thrust my hand towards her. She recoils at my sudden movement, probably thinking that my fist was going to make contact with her face—good.  
“Hi, I’m Emma.” I say confidently, a sickly sweet smile on my face. I made sure that my handshake was firm and meaning business, no matter how incredibly uncomfortable this all was she wasn’t going to get the best of me. Milah mumbles her name, taking my hand limply in hers and going along with the shake. “Who’s this little guy?” I continue, trying to keep the conversation going so we don’t hit a silence as awkward as the last one.  
“This is his son, Peter.” Milah tells me, her gaze finally meeting mine head on, a smirk gracing her delicate features. Killian’s eyes do not meet mine, and I can’t say I blame him.   
“Your son.” I repeat and I must look like a total idiot. “I didn’t know you had a son, Killian.” I say softly. I feel bile rising up my throat coupled with unwelcome tears starting to prickle at the corner of my eyes. The familiar sense of crippling anxiety starts swirling around my stomach and my chest constricts tightly, making the exact location of my ribcage palpable by their pressure on my lungs. Had he lied to me? No, he would’ve mentioned a child.   
“Neither did I, love.” Out of the corner of my eye I see Milah glare at the use of the pet name.   
“How old is he?” I ask her with a smile, attempting to make the conversation easier on Killian. I look at Baby Demon’s big blue eyes and notice that, though blue, they’re not at all reminiscent of Killian’s and they don’t look like Milah’s either. It must be some combination of the two, I decide.   
“He’s fifteen months.” Milah says proudly and I fight the urge to roll my eyes at her. Killian doesn’t hold back his disdain though and he rolls his eyes without remorse. We’ve had that conversation before, the one that asks why parents do that. Fifteen months. Your child is fucking one year and three months old, lady. Why is that so hard to say?  
Milah takes Baby Demon back into her arms and I see Killian fixing on him a smile that reaches his eyes. I can’t stop thinking about what this would mean for us, for what we have…or rather, what we don’t have. A child only mildly complicates things, mildly complicates the delicate situation I am already in. Sure, the paparazzi would have a field day at the prospect of the fact that Killian Jones now has an entire separate family in addition to a relationship with me. But my mind can’t help but zoom into the possibility of there ever being something real between him and me. With another family in the way, and the love he already harbors for her, how could I ever be any competition? How could I have any real importance in his life? I think that there is the real complication. I passed through many a broken family to ever even dare to put another child in the same situation because of my own selfish reasons.  
He turns to look at me and the smile falls off his face when he meets my gaze. He must sense that I’m nervous so I resolve to give him a reassuring smile. He matches it, smiling softly at me, but knowing that my mind is clouded with confusion and hopelessness.   
“I should go, give you guys some time to catch up. I’ll see you later Kil.” I say softly, eyeing the trio with a longing deeply rooted in my history of broken families. I can’t do that to Baby Demon, no matter how much I dislike kids. I won’t do that to Killian either. I stand before Killian has a chance to protest, which I knew he would, and start making my way towards the door. Grabbing my purse off the coatrack next to the door, I quickly exit Killian’s apartment and walk towards the elevator. I had heard him excuse himself to Milah and start following me to the hallway.   
“Emma, wait.” I hear him say behind me. His legs are longer than mine and he catches up to me in a matter of seconds, his hand hooking itself around the crook of my elbow and gently tugging me towards him. “Wait, please. Don’t run.” He says softly, his blue eyes focusing themselves intently on my eyes.   
“I wasn’t going to.” I respond quietly—a bold lie—and he shakes his head at me. “Yes, you were.” He says, his hands intimately caressing my face. “I know you.” He smiles, before capturing my lips in a soft kiss. All I want is to completely let myself go in this kiss but I can’t.   
“Stop.” I say weakly, my palms flat on his chest pushing him away from me. “I can’t do this.” He sighs, but complies nonetheless.  
“What can’t you do?” He asks softly, his forehead lightly touching mine as he asks the question. He then lifts his head up and looks at me expectantly. “Is it because of Milah?”  
“I can’t break you guys up.” I say, unable to look at him directly until he guides my gaze back onto his, his finger under my chin.  
“We aren’t together, Emma.” He tells me plainly, clearly referring to Milah and him. The elevator dings behind me but I can only focus on the look he’s giving me, almost as if he’s trying to convey his feelings for me. But it’s not real, none of this is real.  
“Neither are we.” I tell him, turning away from him and pressing the button to call the elevator again. I need to get out of here.  
“I know but¬—”  
“No, you owe it to them to try. I know you want to.” I say forcefully, turning back towards him and trying to make him see that his place is with his family, not a washed-up wild child actress trying to get the pieces of her life back together.   
“Aye, but I made a promise to you lass and I intend to keep it. It would be bad form not to uphold it.” He tells me seriously, his eyebrows knit together in determination.   
“I don’t expect you to, not anymore. Peter, he complicates things and I won’t let you have broken family because of me.” I snap. Why won’t he get it? ‘Go, be with your family, you have a chance to fix it, to mend it, so do it!’ I want to say but I know it’s no use. He’s so damn stubborn.   
“And I refuse to let you throw away all the hard work you’ve put into getting back into acting, Emma.” He snaps back at me, making me smile at how easy it is for us to go back to our initial ways. He shakes his head, a smile threatening to break out on his lips as well. “I agree, things are complicated right now, but we’ll figure it out.”  
“Then I’m going to have to talk to Mags about how to strategize about this.” I tell him and he nods, seemingly happy that he’s not about to lose me just yet. Killian presses the button for the elevator, calling it for a third time during our conversation, and when he drops his hand from it he grabs mine instead. He gives me a rueful smile as he traces circles in the crevice between my index finger and thumb with his calloused own. “You’re my best friend, Emma Swan.” He says, making my heart swell up in my chest, “I’d hate for anything to ruin what we have.”  
“I need to go.” I say thickly, and he nods absentmindedly, watching as I get on the elevator.  
“Swan,” he starts as the elevator doors start to close and he thrusts his arm in between them to stop the doors from closing, “do you reckon I can still kiss you on the weekends?” His wink is accompanied with a sly grin.   
“I don’t think that’d be a good idea anymore, Kil.” I say sheepishly, not because I didn’t want to kiss him anymore, but because I didn’t feel remotely comfortable doing so as of today.   
“I thought so. Worth a shot though.” He grins, taking my hand one last time and squeezing it before stepping back and letting the doors close between us.  
-/-  
The tears consumed me the moment I got home. My mind racing telling me that it was my fault, that I should have never gotten mixed up with him in the first place, that it was for the best, that he was with his family. I both tried to convince myself that the decision I took was the honorable one and that I was an idiot for even thinking that things would somehow turn out different the second time I opened myself up to a man. I had called Mary Margaret on my way over and left her a message saying that she needed to come to my house immediately.   
I hear Mary Margaret enter my house half an hour later. I’ve been sitting on the concrete lip around my pool, just staring into nothing as my feet dangle inside the water. Why do I feel like I’ve lost something if I never truly had it?  
“Alright, I’m here! I brought White Zinfandel and Boston Crèmes and this better be good because David and I were about to—oh, my God Emma what happened?” She must be referring to my blotchy and tear-stained face. I’ve been crying freely, unable to stop. I shrug and go back to looking at the view of the Valley. Next thing I know, a Boston Crème is being thrust next to my face. “What happened?” Mary Margaret asks again, this time more serious, her tone more patient.  
“You have to promise me that you won’t freak out.” I say, dragging my forearm underneath my nose, wiping the wetness that had accumulated between the tears and the snot. Disgusting, I know.   
“You know I can’t make you that promise. I’m too anxious and OCD to promise you something like that.” She replies, a soft reassuring smile on her face as she sits next to me and dips her legs in the water next to mine. “Mags, Killian and I have been...” I start but she interjects.   
“Messing around.”  
“You knew?” I look up at her, seeing Mary Margaret raise her shoulders at her as she grins at me.   
“You’re not that good of an actress.” She teases, bumping her shoulder against mine and bringing the Boston Crème up to her mouth.  
“That’s a lie.” I scoff, bumping her back.   
“It is, I just saw how you looked at him and how he looked at you. I figured something was up since those first few months you’d been at each other’s throats, ready to maim the other and then you were sharing adoring looks.” Mary Margaret tells me matter-of-fact.   
“Yeah, well shit just hit the fan, Mags.” I say, looking at the donut in my hand, wishing I had the smallest inclination to eat it, but I just could not bring myself to even bring it up to my mouth.   
“What happened, Em?” I don’t want to tell her, telling her only makes it real. Makes the fact that the guy that I was starting to develop feelings for is now permanently unavailable. Because no matter how much I love him, I won’t get in between a family. I won’t break the chance he’s got to mend whatever he has with the woman he loves.  
Because I love him, I’ll set him free.  
Oh, my god. I love him.  
I love Killian Jones.  
But he’s unavailable and that’s just my luck, so there’s no point in denying what happened, or giving myself a shred of hope that he feels the same way about me.  
“He has a kid, Mags.” I say, and she stays quiet. Her eyes are wide as saucers when I turn to look at her. “No he doesn’t. He was vetted.” She replies, her anxiety seeping into her voice. The way it always does when Mags feels like she’s starting to lose control. “Well the ex-girlfriend who broke him came by his apartment this morning, toddler in tow.” I say bitterly, finally taking the Boston Crème up to my mouth and stuffing half of it in one bite. There, I said it. I said it, and now it is real.   
And he’s lost to me forever.  
“I can see why you called. This complicates things…but we could use it to your advantage.”  
“How?”  
“Well, if the public and the suits see you with his kid, they can’t deny that you’re truly moving on and deeply committed to him.” Mags tells me methodically, and I can see her altering the original plan to this new one.  
“I was afraid you were going to insinuate that I have to take care of the kid.” I say darkly, reaching back to the box of donuts and getting another one. The prospect of taking care of Baby Demon is not at all an exciting one for me. It’s not just that I don’t particularly like children, they’re fine, it’s the fact that whenever I’m left with one I have no idea what to do with it. It’s like making a cat babysit. “Do you think he’ll be okay with that?” Mags asks, typing on her phone—no doubt telling David about the development. “I think so, he was very adamant when he was telling me that he wasn’t about to walk out on his commitment to me.” I answer idly as I focus on the way the water swirls around my feet.   
“Well he can’t, he signed a contract.” She responds condescendingly, looking at me seriously. “I know, but I was willing to release him from it.” I tell her, smiling sheepishly, a sigh leaving my lips. Mags smiles sadly at me, and I can pinpoint pity in her face, she knows I feel something for Killian, but she’s not about to say anything about it. Instead she places her hand on top of mine and squeezes it comfortingly. “You’ll be okay, Emma. This will work out, I promise.” I nod, taking my feet out of the water and lifting myself up from the concrete lip.   
“So, you and David, huh?” I say, looking down at her, handing her my hand to help her up. “When were you planning on telling me about that?”   
“When were you planning on telling me about Killian?”  
“That’s different. We were just fooling around.”  
“We’ve only been on a couple of dates, but he’s incredible, Em. He’s just so charming.” David Nolan is not charming and I refuse to believe it. Every time I’ve seen him he’s been the most taciturn man I’ve ever been around. Then again, I don’t personally know him and maybe when he doesn’t have to constantly worry about Killian and he’s around Mags he lets loose. I smile at my friend’s content face, pleased that at least one of us is happy.  
-/-  
I haven’t heard from Killian in three weeks. That’s a lie, we’ve sent each other messages, gotten coffee twice, and met up at a strategic meeting with Mary Margaret and David last week, but he tends to go back to his apartment quickly afterwards. Not that I blame him, finding out you have a son with the woman you love—not me, unfortunately—would take up most of your time, most of your attention, most of your heart. Liam texted me livid after he found out about Peter, shoving down his theory that Killian isn’t Peter’s biological father and Milah is—once again—duping him and taking advantage of him down my throat.   
That would be incredible, if Killian wasn’t Baby Demon’s biological father, but I don’t want to be that selfish. Killian is happy with the two of them, happier than I have ever seen him. Even if he wasn’t the actual father, I still wouldn’t want him to find out, he already loves Peter so much that I’m convinced that if he finds out Peter isn’t his, Killian would be beyond devastated. Besides, Killian and I have come to a truce now. Spending the past few weeks with Milah has rekindled the feelings he used to have for her, the unabridged love he has for her. Therefore now, for the cameras and the general public, Killian and I are in love, but behind closed doors there’s nothing there anymore. Behind closed doors he’s with Milah again, much to Liam’s anger and my heart’s dismay.  
March has been uneventful, and with Coachella looming around the corner and the Rolly Jogers scheduled to perform the second weekend, even if I wanted to see him he’d be too busy with rehearsal. I’ve been hanging out a lot with Ruby lately. I’ve even had a cameo in her show last week when we went shopping in Beverly Hills. When I told her that Killian has a kid—Mag’s idea…Ruby makes a scene everywhere and the word that Killian has a child with his ex-lover would have been tweeted mere seconds after I had told her. That way, when the paparazzi see us with a child they know where it comes from and I get christened St. Emma Swan, Patron Saint of Stepmothers—Ruby merely recoiled, scowling at the idea of a snotty kid.   
She’s having a party tonight, Ruby is. I don’t really feel like going, but ever since I started hanging out with Killian, I kind of put my other friends on hold…something Ruby hasn’t let me forget. I figure that I have to move on from Killian, give myself some time alone, maybe meet some handsome stranger and have the same arrangement with him that Killian has with Milah. It’s funny how things have changed since last November when Killian and I first met. It’s funny how I barely even think about Neal anymore, Killian having being my sole focus. I can’t deny that I feel just a little bit angry at Killian. He told me that I was his best friend, he kissed me outside the elevator, and for the past three weeks I’ve barely heard anything from him. I have barely seen him, I have barely had any glimpse into his life. When we were alone in the coffee shop, he was on his phone. When I message him, wanting to talk to my best friend, he doesn’t answer until three hours later. Part of me feels guilty for being angry, but mostly I validate my anger when I think of his pseudo-abandonment.   
You’re my best friend, Emma Swan. I’d hate for anything to ruin what we have. Yeah, right. Little did he know that my pushing him into fixing his little family would ruin what we have by proxy.   
I sigh as I get ready a week later. I really am in no mood to go out tonight, but Ruby insists. However, I settle on a black jumpsuit, the thin spaghetti straps crossing across my back in a deep X, and some platform heels. My hair, is swept up into a high ponytail, my lips are painted a dark, velvety plum, and my cat eyeliner has been swept up dramatically. I feel like I’m trying to hard, having been used to wearing as little makeup as possible around Killian.   
Stop it, stop thinking about Killian.   
He has a family, he is happy.   
I get to Ruby’s house around ten thirty, her massive mansion already buzzing with the crowd of people that have been invited. I make my way towards the bar and order a Long Island Iced Tea, my drink of choice when I want to get fucked up incredibly fast. I honestly think I’m angrier at myself than anything else, I should’ve told Killian that I didn’t want to take a break, that I wanted to stay with him, that I would still kiss him on the weekends, that Milah could go back to wherever she came from because he was mine, and she had her chance. But no, once again I didn’t think of what I wanted, I thought about what he should have wanted, never mind that for weeks it seemed that what he wanted was me. I thrust him into this family, I made the decision, I made the mistake.   
I down what’s left of my drink, and ask for another one and down half of the new one in one gulp.  
“Easy there, lass. We don’t want to rush you out of here in a hospital.” The familiar accent makes my heart skip a beat, but I know that it doesn’t belong to Killian but Graham, his best friend.   
“I’m in a mood, Humbert.” I tell him dryly, walking back to an empty loveseat in a darkened corner of the room. I roll my eyes as I sense him following me.   
“I can see that. When your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend shows up with a baby, I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” He says just as dry, just as bitter, and sits next to me.   
“Have you talked to him?” I ask him seriously, knowing that if he’s just as bitter as I am then I’m not the only one that has trouble accepting the way events have unfolded.  
“Not outside of rehearsal, he’s absolutely infatuated with the woman and the child. He won’t listen to reason, the kid doesn’t even look like him.” Graham scoffs, taking a sip of the glass of whiskey that he had been nursing since he found out.   
“I take it you share Liam’s theory that Peter isn’t his?” I ask wryly, and he nods. “It’s not, it can’t be. You don’t know Milah, Emma. She’s a viper, a social climbing viper.” I’m glad to hear that I’m not the only one who dislikes the woman. From what I have gathered, she was married when she met Killian and it wasn’t until they were midway through the affair that she confessed to the existence of a husband. Killian had already been so infatuated with her, so deeply in love with her that he didn’t care and kept the ruse, preferring to be with her even though she was still technically married to her husband, than not at all. She had then told him that she had gotten the divorce, and it only took Killian a second to put a ring on her finger and moved her into his apartment. They went on tour, and Mila came with them and, as usual, a huge fight ensued that made Milah retreat back to LA and when Killian got home he found his things in the hallway, the locks changed, and Milah’s husband on his way out. “I can see that, she wasn’t exactly welcoming to me when I first met her.” I reply bitterly, the mention of the woman enough to warrant my desire to punch her in the face. “Aye, and she was most likely at her best when you did meet her.” I nod and we stay quiet for a while, I go back to the bar to get another Long Island and find him looking at me pensively when I return.  
“Are you alright? It seemed like you and Kil were getting on pretty well before she showed up.” He says straightforwardly. I like that there’s a no-nonsense air to Graham, it’s down-to-earth, and comforting.   
“I’m fine, Graham. Really, I am. We had just become really close friends after spending all that time together.” He chuckles at that, raising his hand in surrender when he sees me glaring at him.  
“I’d say you lot were closer than that, if I were to base my opinion on when we walked in on you basically having intercourse at the studio.” He says and I feel my skin get flushed around my chest and neck, a tell tale sign that I was embarrassed.   
“That was a one time thing.” I say flustered.   
“Liar.” Graham gives a dry chuckle. “Do you mind if we change the subject?” I ask hurriedly, extremely uncomfortable at the direction the conversation has taken. “Not at all.” he responds and we fall into an easy conversation. I had never really talked to Graham before, short of a few exchanges when I had been at rehearsal or during a gig. Most of our conversations were in passing, a simple hello and a compliment on their playing but I didn’t really know anything about the members of the Rolly Jogers, save for Killian and Liam. I find that Graham is funny, that his accent gets thicker with each passing drink, and that he recently adopted a wolf hybrid from the LA animal shelter, half wolf and half Siberian Husky he said. He shows me pictures of her—Snow, he had called her—she’s small, no older than three months, and I make him promise me to let me play with her. We take turns buying each other shots of Fireball, our movements and mental capacities getting sloppier by each passing hour. He makes me laugh all night long. I always thought that he was quiet, and quite rude but he’s apparently very good at impressions and he has a knack for imitating a wide variety of celebrities—most notably Jon Snow from Game of Thrones—and an uncanny impression of Will Scarlet. He tells me stories of how he and Killian would get into trouble during their time at university, and tells me about the pranks they tend to pull while they’re on tour—mostly on Liam, because he’s the one that needs to loosen up the most, behind David of course. I tell him that Mary Margaret and David are an item now, to which he responds, “It’s about damn time!”  
The night is turning out better than I expected, with Graham making me feel light and free, and thoughts of Killian far in the back of my mind. He’s an amazing dancer, and given the right amount of shots, he becomes the life of the party. My mind is hazy and my judgment clouded by inebriation but I know that I’m attracted to him, at least in part. His green eyes are warm and his light brown hair is wavy—and all I can think about is threading my fingers through his hair, to see if it’s as soft as it looks—and I know that he’s looking at me in the same way, the way his hand snakes low around my waist, pulling me closer to him as we dance. It’s intimate, it’s full of wanting, it’s deliberate.   
“He’s a fool to let you go.” He slurs quietly against my ear, making my skin erupt in goosebumps. Maybe this is okay. Maybe this is what I need. Maybe what I need is someone that doesn’t have attachments, someone who wants me and can have me.   
He’s Killian’s best friend.  
Killian and I were never a thing. We were never real.   
But you love him.  
And he loves someone else. Besides, the foundation of our relationship might as well have been built on broken glass, we were to broken to last. Graham is here, he’s tangible, and he’s interested.   
“Are you going to be a fool too?” I ask him softly, smiling at the way his hands tighten his grip around my waist and his green eyes focus on mine. “Absolutely not.” He responds before placing his lips on mine, capturing my lips in a soft but firm kiss. I know I shouldn’t be kissing someone who isn’t Killian in public, much less his band mate, but the room is dark and foggy, and he’s here and so am I, and I want this.   
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A/N- So, whatcha think?? don't hate me too much! I think I'll be updating Awake My Soul next and alternate between updating stories! If you're not reading that one I suggest you check it ouuuuut ;)


	8. Chapter Eight- Blindsided

_A/N: Writer's block is real and it is scary. Since we're transitioning into angst, let me tell you it was so hard to wrap my head around that and pin point Killian's feelings throughout this new development. In the end I was able to churn out the last half of this chapter today and I'm pretty proud of it—I 1) thought this chapter was going to be shit with the way I started it and 2) am very emotionally drained from writing it. But I got a lot of feedback last time and I hope you enjoy this chapter and don't want to kill me too much after reading it._ _\- Steph_

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Chapter Eight- Blindside

 

            As the weeks turned into April, all I could think about was Peter. All I could think when I looked into his light blue eyes was, ‘Have you ever fallen in love with someone so fast that you could not possibly fathom a life without them?’ Milah was continually out and about, spa-days, meetings with girlfriends, catching up on the life she had put on hold once she had had the child. To me it was no difference, and I had no qualms with looking over the little sprout. Once Peter had grasped his tiny little fist around my index finger I knew I was a goner, my heart brimming with joy when I saw his toothy grin aimed at me. Aye, I was blindsided with the affection I’d come to harbor for the lad. I’ve even been trying to persuade Milah to come on tour with me this summer so I can spend time with him. She’s not too keen on the idea, and I don’t know why but if she even were to stop by and visit us at certain locations I’d be a very happy man indeed.

            David has taken the news rather well, more so than my band mates. I know that their main objections stem from Milah—Liam voicing his concerns rather loudly—but they have never had kind inclinations towards her anyways, so I tend to ignore them. I’m happier than I have been in months, truly incandescently happy, and I cannot fathom another reason save for Peter’s presence. David insists on keeping up my end of the agreement I signed with Emma, sweet, understanding, beautiful Emma. She’s been distant since we put a stop to our dalliance—that much I’ve gathered and expected—but she’s been rather supportive about the whole ordeal as well. Had she not pushed me into participating in building a family with Milah and Peter—mostly just Peter—I wouldn’t be as happy as I currently am.        She and I have been out and about with Peter on multiple occasions now. We’ll leave from my apartment or meet up at a park somewhere and spend the day together. I know that she’s not particularly fond of children at the moment, so it means a lot to me when she takes the initiative to show Peter a good time. She has clearly researched about the topic, bringing home games and coloring books, movies and toys for him. Sometimes, when she’s lying on the hardwood flooring of my apartment as she colors, her tongue sticks out and her eyebrows knit together, showcasing the utmost concentration, and all I can do is stare at her with a silly, dumfounded look on my face, stifling the urge to reach over and kiss her again.

            We do not do that anymore and I’d do well to remember that.

            Milah is not Emma’s biggest fan, but I didn’t expect any more or any less in that front. Most of the time, Milah stays over whenever Emma doesn’t and the most they see each other is when Milah drops off Peter, always in passing and I’m sure that’s how all three of us would prefer the situation to stay. It’s an odd setup to be sure and I would be lying if I said that whenever Emma stays over and sleeps in the guest bedroom doesn’t feel weird, off-putting. As well as I’d be lying if I said that falling asleep with Milah in my arms doesn’t feel strange and disconcerting, because I absolutely feel that she doesn’t belong there anymore, she’s not the right size, not the right warmth. There is no glow when we wake up and we move together, there’s no laughter in Milah’s eyes, there’s no soft, cascading laugh to fill the air. I shake my head to rid myself of these thoughts, this is what I wanted, this is what’s best for Peter, what’s best for this family.

            Tuesday comes along with another endless tirade from Milah’s part, as she asks why it is necessary for Emma to stay the night. I sigh, repeating once again that in order to portray a healthy, loving relationship, it’s only natural for Emma—as my girlfriend of five months—to stay over at my apartment and for me to stay over at her house.

            “Honestly, Kil, you could’ve at least found someone closer to your age. She’s positively a child.” I roll my eyes, knowing that if Emma were here she would love to punch Milah in the face.

            “I’m five years older than her, Milah,” I say, shaking my head and sitting in front of Peter—who’s in a high chair, eagerly waiting for his breakfast—ready to scoop some porridge and give it to the lad. “It’s hardly an age chasm.” I bite my tongue to add that R. Gold, Hollywood magnate and her ex-husband, was fifteen years her senior.

            Mila is about to go into another tirade when we hear Emma call out her good morning as she enters my apartment and I hear her drop her keys and bag on the glass table next to the front door. I’ve hardly time to notice Milah pursing her lips when Emma bounds happily into the kitchen, her step faltering a little when she sees Milah. She hands me a Starbucks cup and looks apologetically at Milah before she adds, “I thought you had gone already. I would’ve got you one had I known you were still here.”

            No, she wouldn’t have.

            “I was just about to leave. Please, make yourself at home.” Milah adds scathingly, her disdain for Emma never one to be hidden from view. Emma grins as she passes next to Peter—ruffling his hair and greeting him with a ‘Hey, kid!’—and goes over to the stove to help herself to bacon, chocolate chip pancakes, and some fruit that I had already laid out for her. “Will do!” She says as she sits at the kitchen table, her mouth full with syrupy pancakes. “Have fun at the spa!” Emma singsongs after Milah, who glares back before coming over to me and giving me a peck on the lips and kissing Peter on the cheeks.

            “I will!” Milah cries defiantly and the next thing I hear is the front door being slammed shut.

            This is why they’re never here while the other is present.

            Emma rolls her eyes and goes back to eating her breakfast. She notices my silence and raises her eyes to look at me sheepishly after a few moments. “Sorry,” she mumbles. I shrug.

            “I’d appreciate it if you would at least try lass.” I say putting the spoon back onto Peter’s plate and wiping the mess around his lips with his bib. “Were you not just here? Killian, _she_ started it!” Emma looks at me incredulously.

            “I’m trying.” She tells me, “It’s not my fault she’s an axe wound.”

            “ _Emma_ ,” I start warningly and I see her green eyes light up with fire. I sigh, not wanting to be in bad terms with her either. “Let’s just have a nice day today, alright?” Her eyes soften slightly and she nods.

            “What do David and Mary Margaret have planned for us today?” She asks, her tone bright—forced, but I appreciate her attempt—and positive. She stands up and picks up Peter, holding him against her hip as she goes towards the sink and wets a cloth to clean up the residue porridge I had done a miserable job of cleaning up earlier. I smile at the sight, a sense of longing tugging at my heartstrings.

            Emma turns and looks at me expectantly.

            “Right,” I start, fumbling with my phone and searching for the e-mail that David had sent me last night. “Oh, bloody hell.” I groan as I look at the plan for the day. “What?” Emma starts, grabbing my phone from my hand and looking at it. “Oh, for _fu—dge’s_ sake!” she exclaims, covering her cussword rather nicely. She hands the phone and then Peter to me, taking out her phone and—what I suppose is—speed dialing Mary Margaret.

            “ _Frozen On Ice? Mags, you can’t be serious!_ ” she exclaims into the phone, “ _Out of all the things you and David could have planned for us, you chose that?”_ I have to suppress a laugh as I see her evident contempt for _Frozen_ , one that I unmistakably share with her. In my humblest of opinions, I believe that Disney achieved all the glory and representation that _Frozen_ has gotten with _Mulan, The Hunchback of Notre Dame_ , and _The Princess and the Frog_ , but that’s neither here nor there. I mostly just think that snowman is the most annoying animated character since that 3D bloke in the Muppets show at Hollywood Studios. _“Yes she was here earlier, what does that have to do with anything—can you stop dismissing my feelings just because I had the misfortune of seeing her this morning?”_ I can’t help but snicker as she groans one more time, unmistakably accepting defeat, and runs her hands through her long blonde mane. _“Fine! We’ll go to that stupid show.”_

            She hangs up and crosses her arms against her chest, “Looks like we won’t be able to get out of this one,” she mumbles. She walks over to me and grabs Peter from my hands. “I bet you don’t even like Olaf, do you?” she coos at him, smiling when the lad thrusts his hands into her hair and plays with her long locks. She rests the lad against her hip and once again I am engulfed in the wistful image of what she and I could have been.

            “What should we do then?” she asks, and I can see that she’s caught me with the dumb look of longing in my eyes because she gives me a knowing smile. One of the many we used to share back before all of this happened, back when we were, dare I say it, together. “The show isn’t until four thirty and it’s a beautiful day. We could go to the beach.” I offer.

            “Did you want to go to my place, then?” She nods, smiling at me.

            “That’d be nice,” I answer, picking up Peter and taking him over to my bedroom to start packing up his things. I hear Emma laugh as she heads towards the guest room to start unpacking her stuff, making herself comfortable for the night ahead of her.

            Heading out of the room I see her deep in conversation with somebody she’s texting. She’s been doing that a lot in the past week. Usually she stays over twice or three times in a week and we used to hang out like normal, playing video games and drinking beer. It’s been different now, what used to feel like being in her genuine company has long since been replaced by her staying over because it’s her job, her mind is always elsewhere, and most likely on whomever it is she’s constantly talking to.

            I really hope that it’s Ruby, but guessing from her late night giggles and the soft smiles on her face, I seriously doubt that.

            “You ready?” I ask her after I secure Peter in his pram. She nods, her attention still focused on her phone. I bite my cheek, knowing fully that I should not feel anything but happiness for my friend who has apparently found someone, just like I have.

            I secure Peter in his car seat and slide into her SUV—my sports car slightly unsafe for a child—she pulls out and, though we’re stuck in traffic for what feels like for fucking bloody ever trying to get out of West Hollywood, we end up in Malibu a little more than an hour later. Emma opens up the gate with a press of a button and the car slides in, inconspicuous inside the twenty-five foot ivy hedges that surround the outer gate. “Sorry if it’s a bit of a mess.” She says, nervously tucking her hair behind her ear. “I was here a couple of days ago and I haven’t had time to clean up,” she continues, still nervous I notice, as she opens the front door. As we walk in the place looks like it has definitely seen more life since the last time I was here, the night after the Academy Awards, when Emma had opened herself up to me completely about her life. It seems like that happened a lifetime ago, but it was a little more than a month.

            Funny, how things happen like that.

            There’s an empty wine bottle next to the couch, the wine glasses still tinged with the residue of the red wine, the remnants of a bag of chips, half eaten and rolled up on the coffee table. On the side table an ashtray with a burned out roach from a joint. “Seems like you had quite the party here, lass.” I say, taking notice of the porch littered with empty beer bottles and the dishes lining up the kitchen counter. “Should I be jealous that I wasn’t invited?” I continue, and as I turn to wink at her I meet her incredulous gaze.

            “Except, you _were_ invited,” she says plainly, rolling her eyes as she starts picking up the trash. “I told you about it last week,” she continues, a bit of exasperation and sadness in her voice, and I remember that she _did_ tell me about it last week while I stayed at her house and we ate Chinese takeout as we wrapped up a show on Netflix.

            _God, I’m such a prat._

“I’m sorry, Swan,” I tell her honestly, awkwardly shuffling Peter against my chest. She shrugs her shoulders and doesn’t meet my eyes. “It’s fine. I know you’re busy,” she says picking up the empty glasses and plates and bringing them to the kitchen.

            “Was it fun?” I ask her, giving her a genuine smile when she looks up at me after loading the dishwasher. “ _Mmmhm,_ ” she nods coming back into the living room and starts straightening out the cushions on the couch before continuing to throw plastic cups and papers into the trash bag. She’s avoiding me and I know that I’ve hit a nerve, but I need her to know that I am truly, genuinely sorry.

            “Who all was here?” I ask again—rather loudly this time, seeing as she has sped off out onto the porch to pick up the remaining litter—as I sit Peter on the reclining chair as I start to dig through his diaper bag for the sunscreen and his _Jake and the Neverland Pirates’_ water wings. “Quite a bit of people,” she says as she comes back into the room, “Mary Margaret and David were here, you actually missed some excessive PDA on their part, Ruby and her flavor of the month, Victor…oh, Liam was here and he was very taken with my friend Elsa,” she says brightly, when I fail to recognize the name she just says, “you know, the model? She’s a Victoria’s Secret Angel?” No, still nothing. However, I’m very pleased and surprised that my brother seemed to take a liking to a model. “Anyways, there were a lot of other people…Will, Robin, Graham, that whole group. It was pretty packed.”

            “Graham was here?” I ask incredulously, incredibly surprised that he and Emma had any form of relationship other than the few chance encounters at rehearsal. Even then I didn’t think she liked him very much. “ _Mmhm,_ ” she nods again.

            I’m about to ask her more about the party when I hear the familiar fretting Peter tends to make before he starts wailing bloody murder. It doesn’t take me long to realize—or rather, smell—what he’s crying about. I stand up and pick him up, bringing the diaper bag into the guest room—I still haven’t mastered changing nappies but I rather think I’m getting there and—oh, _bloody hell,_ I forgot the baby wipes. “Swan!” I cry out, hoping against hope that she has something in this house that can work in lieu of them.

            “Yeah?” She asks, poking her head into the room, a grimace rapidly etched on her face as the odor and sight greets her. “You wouldn’t have baby wipes, would you, love?” She grins at me, sly and almost mocking me.

            “Did you forget?” she asks, her voice teasing me. I’d play games with her but Peter is wailing and wriggling under me and I’d rather not have shite smeared across my face. “ _Swan._ ” I mutter.

            “I got you covered, Killian. I bought some last week and stashed them under the bathroom cabinet. I’ll be right back.” She laughs as she scurries out to the bathroom and comes back into the room and hands me the wipes.

            I love her.

            “Thank you!” I call out to her after she exits the room. “ _You got it, captain!_ ” she replies.

            Once I’ve finished I step out back onto the living room and find her out on the porch, talking on the phone. She smiles at me when she sees me and it takes me a second to regain my composure when I see her clad in her tiny, black string bikini because after all, the attraction I had towards her was strong and is still very much present a month later.

            Something else I’ve got to work on diminishing.

            “ _Where do these go?_ ” I mouth at her and she covers the mouthpiece to her phone and directs me towards the cabinet in the bathroom. Leaving Peter in her care, I decide to do something nice for her and empty out the bin in the bathroom because it’s full to the brim and it’s the least I could do for her being so hospitable. I try to not let it bother me, but when I pick up the bin and see that there’s a used condom in it, I feel my body run cold and unmistakable jealousy course through my very soul.

-/-

            I spend the rest of the day in taciturn silence, my mind half berating me for being jealous and the other part of my mind egging the ire on. It was certainly one thing to imagine her with another person, but to have it confirmed by evidence such as the one I found in the bin was something out of this world. It felt as if I had been plunged into the deepest, coldest, tub of water as realization hit me. I had moved on, and so had she.

            I shouldn’t be mad or jealous, and part of me is just upset that after all we’ve been through together she hasn’t told me who, or what, or when it all happened. Is it serious? Is it just fooling around? Do I know him?

            _Is he handsome? Is he a better lover? Does she love him?_

            I try to rid myself of the thoughts but they consume my mind. The entire day I feel insecure, lost, and angry—a strange feeling of possessiveness coursing through my entire body. Every time she smiles at me it feels like she’s stabbing my heart, every time I see her on the phone I want to yank it out of her hands and smash it against a wall—not before checking who it is she’s so keen on talking to.

            The time at the beach is short, with three in the afternoon reaching us faster than we expected it to. We shower, we dress and we’re on our way to bloody, fucking _Frozen on Ice_. She’s steering the pram when I hear the familiar shutter of a digital camera and instinct moves over me as I drape my hand across her shoulders and bring her closer to me in order to place a kiss on her temple. She smiles sweetly, excelling at playing the part of supportive girlfriend whose boyfriend’s ex showed up with a baby out of nowhere and now she’s glad to take care of.

            We’re in love, and we’re happy, and this is all a _bloody fucking lie_.

            “That wasn’t so bad,” she says as we exit the stadium—my jacket on her shoulders because she got cold midway through the show. I bite my cheek from snapping at her, asking her how would she know given that she was texting whoever she’s screwing the entirety of the performance.

            “Aye,” I say instead, my grip tight on the pram’s handles and my knuckles white.

            We order pizza for dinner and in the middle of it, she asks me if I want to have a night swim after we’re done and Milah has picked up Peter for the night. I nod, wanting to seem as calm as possible and not appearing as I feel on the inside, where rage and jealousy are tearing me apart. She asks me if I’m okay, that I have hardly said a word all day, I nod once more.

            Milah picks Peter up at nine and as she moves around the apartment gathering his essentials she completely ignores Emma. Emma in turn glares at her over the brim of her glass of red wine. We are all silent, we are all brooding, and the only smile I manage to emit is when I get to hug and kiss one very tired, very sleepy Peter goodnight.

            Once Milah leaves, Emma starts making moves to go out to the swimming pool. She packs up the leftover pizza—mumbling something about cold pizza for breakfast—and goes into her room to change into her swimsuit. She leaves her door open—a habit left over from when we were fooling around—and I can’t help but let my gaze drift into where she’s undressing and tying up her bikini—emerald green this time. She grins at me when she exits the room and lends me her hand to help me get up off the floor, where I’ve also been steadfastly nursing a gauntlet-sized glass of Malbec. I sway a bit and she takes the glass from me, “I think that’s enough of that for tonight,” she says. I let my eyes close at the feel of her hands threading through my hair, something she hasn’t done in a while. Instinctively, and rather inebriated, I let my hand ghost over her exposed skin, smiling as I feel it erupt into goose-bumps, relishing that I still have that effect on her.

            “We should go swim,” she mumbles, her voice quiet but flustered. I nod and go into my room to change into my swim trunks. I throw a towel in her direction, and she manages to catch it before it hits her square in the face. My ire has subsided slightly, just slightly, but I’m too tired to feel anymore.

            It takes us a few minutes to get to the pool, which is located a couple of floors below mine, the one that acts like a rooftop. It overlooks the city, and tonight the lights make it seem like the nightlife is bustling as always. I’m entranced with the view, some odd existential crisis taking over me as I think how small my problem is compared to the ones people might have out there in this city.

            Problem. I shouldn’t feel like there even is a problem. I have my son, I have the woman I love, and Emma and I never had anything that was real. “Are you sure you’re okay, Killian?” Emma asks, her body already in the water, looking almost like a siren as the neon lights and the ripples of the pool reflect off her pearlescent skin, her golden hair, wet and matted but still beautiful, fanned around her. “Aye, Swan. Must you ask again?” I reply, sighing—not really helping my cause—as I slide into the warm water. She shakes her head before she starts to swim towards me and once she reaches me she throws her arms around me, enveloping me in a hug.

            “I’m worried about you,” she says, her voice muffled by its proximity to my skin. “You’re keeping something from me,” she continues as she pulls away from me, her green eyes wide and concerned. She narrows them in confusion, most likely because she saw the flash of anger flick through my own gaze. “I’m fine,” I reply, unclasping her arms from around my neck and swimming away from her. If my detachment has hurt her, she shows no sign of it, she simply stays quiet as she mulls whatever it is she wants to say to me next.

            “Liam asked me to talk to you at the party,” she starts tentatively, swimming closer to me and sitting on the staircase next to me. She brings her knees up to her chest and hugs them close to her, “and as your friend, I think I should.”

            “Do get on with it, Swan.” I snap, feeling in no mood for her hesitation. “Fine!” she huffs, “I don’t think you’re Peter’s father.” I groan and slide into the water, letting it engulf me completely. I am in absolutely no mood for this shite again.

            “I see Liam has fed you his cock and bull theory of his,” I tell her as I come up for air a good forty seconds later. “It’s not cock and bull,” she says defiantly, “I think there’s some truth to it.”

            I remain quiet, not wanting to talk about the subject. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong in asking for a paternity test, Kil. It’s the rational thing to do.” The bloody rational thing to do is also to tell me that you’ve decided to date someone else. “I mean think about it, Kil. She shows up fifteen months after you break up with a kid on her hip and she says it’s yours and you just believe her. You said it yourself, she’s lied to you since the very beginning!” Emma says, I can feel the strain of desperation in her voice as she tries to make me see reason. But I don’t want to find out if Peter is mine or isn’t mine, I don’t care. He’s given me so much hope and happiness in the past month that I couldn’t care less if he was mine or if the Pope was his father. I shake my head and head out of the pool, grabbing my towel as I start heading for the doors that lead to the elevator.

            “Killian, I’m just worried. I’m just trying to look out for you.” Emma cries out as she follows me, walking two steps faster in order to be able to catch up with me. The doors to the elevator open and I jam my finger against the button that leads to the top floor. “Killian, talk to me.” Emma breathes next to me. I shake my head, the anger coursing through my body in waves, the jealousy and her hypocrisy sparking the ire back to its fullest potential.

            “I’m just trying to help, Kil!” She says once we enter my apartment, and I can’t bloody handle it any more and I turn to her. “Why do you even care?” I ask, and I see her retreat, her eyes showcasing confusion and fright. The confusion only lasts a split second as her eyes narrow in the fiery contempt I’ve come to expect from her, “Because I’m your friend,” she says firmly.

            “Right, that’s a _fucking_ laugh,” I spit out, my voice sarcastic and riddled with irritation. I am fully aware that my ire has no stem, no valid reason for existing, but it’s the only emotion that’s coursing through my entire body, and by god, I will feel it. “Why are you being like this?” she asks, the room silent but for our combined heavy breathing and the droplets of water that are dripping onto the hardwood floor. “When are you going to tell me that you’re seeing someone?” I ask and I wish I could take it back because it sounds so _stupid_ , and _bloody_ childish but it’s out there and Emma is scoffing and eyeing me with incredulity.

            “Is _this_ what this is about? Why you’ve been so unbearable all day? Because I’m _seeing_ someone?” she asks loudly, her eyes flaring with anger and disbelief.

            “Aye, it is! You could’ve well fucking told me!” I retaliate, just as angry and feeling like the most stupid person alive for even sounding so envious, so possessive. “ _Seriously?_ What the hell is wrong with you?” She cries out.

            “Who is he?” I say and I want to bash my head against the wall because why does it matter who he is? “Why do you _care_?” she asks, “You have Milah!”

            “I care because I don’t want some fucking wanker to mess up all the hard work we’ve been putting on!” She laughs then, a derisive and mocking laugh. “Oh, yeah because that is what this is about! Our _hard work_ , not because your ego is bruised that I can find someone too!” she spits out, her towel pooling around her ankles during her outburst. It was quite disconcerting, but I managed to keep my attention on her eyes and her eyes only…for the most part. “Aye, it is about our hard work!”

            “No it’s not. Newsflash, Killian, I do not belong to you! We weren’t in an actual relationship.” She shouts exasperatedly, her arms flying up to secure her wet mop of curls into a messy knot on top of her head.

            “Yeah, and you made sure of that, lass!” I shout back, wanting nothing more than to cross the chasm between us and crash my lips onto hers. She drives me insane.

            “No, _you_ made sure of that when you stood me up for Ruby’s party and chose to see Milah behind closed doors!”

            “ _You_ were the one that suggested me falling headfirst into this ‘family’! You wouldn’t hear of me doing anything but giving Milah a chance!”

            We quiet down after that, our voices hoarse from the screaming, our chests heaving rapidly in agitation. “I didn’t want another family to break up because of me.” She says quietly, making me instinctively go to her to comfort her. “Don’t!” she says, holding a hand up towards me, “don’t come over.”

            “Swan, I—” I start, not knowing what to say but wishing to apologize for anything.

            “No. Let’s get something straight, Killian. I do not belong to you. And you do not belong to me. We were never in a real relationship. We fooled around and that was a mistake, a mistake that I take equal share in the blame.” She pauses, considering her words carefully. “ _This_ ,” she motions between us, “is a business transaction and you do not get to get jealous because I decided to see someone—or even _consider_ to see someone— behind closed doors, the same way you decided to see someone. I considered myself your friend, because despite everything I thought that’s what we had developed, and I don’t want to lose it because of something so _stupid_ such as this.”

            We stay silent, and I try to not let her words anger me, but it’s no use. I’m already angry, I’m already consumed with rage, and there’s no calming the raging storm inside of me. “I was just worried about you,” she says quietly, looking at me with an unwavering gaze.

            “Swan, you just made it perfectly clear that what we have isn’t real, it never has, and it never will be and as such I would love for you to mind your own _bleeding_ business.” She takes a deep breath, obviously trying to qualm the rage that’s also vivid inside of her. Shaking her head, she bends down and forcefully throws the towel back at me, before she strides into the guest bedroom and slams the door shut.

            I spend the entire night trying to convince myself that I hadn’t lost her or what we had, because what we had was never existent to begin with.

            The next morning, she is gone.

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_A/N: Don't kill me! But please let me know how much you hate me >:)_


	9. Chapter Nine- All's Fair in Love and War

_A/N- Hey guys! here's the latest chapter! sorry it took me so long, I was having trouble with where I wanted to go with it and was kind of feeling super insecure about my writing but I hope you like this chapter. please let me know what you think! it means the world to me! -steph_

 

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Chapter Nine- All is Fair in Love and War

            I do not want to go to Coachella. I do not want to sit around in a desert, playing nice, and being all smiles when I have no motivation to do so. Coachella was my scene when I was nineteen and I had just met Neal. I had a crush on him because he was into hallucinogens, taught me to pick locks, and made me feel bad—the Michael Jackson type of bad. I met Neal during the wildest time of my life, when my days started at eight in the evening and I went out till seven in the morning, back when I had finally left that stupid family sitcom and had graduated to dragging myself through the gutters, stoned and drunk on my way home, vowing to never touch another alcoholic drink, only to do it all over again the next day. It’s not a time I’m particularly proud of, but neither is it a time that I look back on with regret. It was a learning experience more than anything.

            I do not want to go to Coachella because I have not spoken to Killian in the three weeks that have led up from the fight we had at his apartment to the Rolly Jogers’ headlining the second weekend of the festival. Yet here I am at a house the band is renting out for the weekend, having to stay with my alleged boyfriend—in the same room, I might add—as if we were still madly in love with each other, still _liked_ each other, and this wasn’t a complete and utter farce. I haven’t seen Killian and I’m glad because I don’t know how this whole ordeal is going to go.

            I do not want to go to Coachella because I also do not want to have to deal with Graham in the same place that I have to deal with Killian. We have only hung out a couple of times, our schedules too hectic—and the fact that we are trying to start _something_ while I’m supposed to be dating his best friend is risky at least—to let us find out what it is that we meant by that kiss. Were we just too drunk? Did we mean something more by it? Am I just a fucked up mess who can’t tell wrong from right?

            In any case I am glad that Graham and I haven’t done more than just kiss. Don’t get me wrong, we almost did. We were in his house, his shirt was off, and he was kissing my neck. His eyes would try to focus on mine as he pulled back and started to ease me onto his bed, a silly grin on his face. “This is lovely,” he had said about my jumpsuit, his fingers trailing the black spaghetti straps, tracing the outline of my shoulders, and the underside of my jaw, his thumb grazing my lips before he kissed me and made my bronzed skin erupt in goose bumps. As he kissed me, slow and firm, he made to tug off my jumpsuit and I started to panic because no matter how much I wanted to want him and how he obviously wanted me—as evidenced by the unmistakable erection pressing up against my thigh—everything felt wrong and out of place. “I don’t think I can do this,” I said lightly, fearing that he would get angry with me as some guys in my past used to do when I had second thoughts such as these. He had pulled back then, his hand outstretched towards mine as he helped me up back to the sitting position I was in just moments before. “I don’t want to rush into anything,” I said quietly to fill the silent void between us. “We don’t have to,” he nodded, his forehead against mine.

            Ever since then we’ve been talking and texting every day, we haven’t kissed, we haven’t touched since the night of Ruby’s party. We are getting to know each other, and maybe there’s some potential in this, but I don’t want to rush into anything. I need to be alone. I need to work on the auditions that I got called back for. I need to be Emma Swan and truly know who she is, not the wild child actress, not the ticking time bomb, just me.

            I drop my bags in the master bedroom after scouting every nook and cranny of the enormous house. The massive structure had eight bedrooms that wrapped around a Spanish courtyard, nine and a half bathrooms, an enormous kitchen with all the amenities and granite countertops, an in-house gym and sauna, a game room, and an Olympic-size infinity pool in the back, complete with a stone barbecue, more palm trees that I could count, and a colossal gazebo at least thirteen feet long.

            Elsa, Belle—Will’s girlfriend, whom I’ve only gotten to know a handful of times but has always been kind and friendly towards me, so I like her—and Mary Margaret arrive before the boys do. The Rolly Jogers are hosting a party tonight to kick off their tour, and management has sent the girlfriends—yes, because Mary Margaret is officially David Nolan’s girlfriend now—in first so we can get ready by the time the guests and press arrive.

            The stylist has my blonde hair braided in a crown, little wisps of curly hair strategically placed to give me a whimsical gypsy vibe. My eyes are heavily lined with kohl, the lids a shimmery gold, and I have emerald green rhinestones deliberately placed on my forehead along the length of my eyebrows. My body is draped with a dangerously short, sweetheart neckline crocheted strapless dress, whose white fabric contrasts nicely with the tan I’ve been working on for weeks. I have more bangles than I can count, and the shoes they’ve placed me in make me feel like I’m walking in stilts.

            I feel absolutely ridiculous.

            I’m staring at myself in the mirror, when a knock interrupts my self-scrutiny. “Can I come in?” Killian asks from the door. I shrug and go back to trying to figure out if the rhinestones on my forehead are a form of cultural appropriation of some sort. “You look wonderful,” he says tentatively and I meet his gaze from the reflection on the mirror. He smiles softly, apologetically, testing the waters of my temper. “Thanks,” I merely say.

            “Are you going to snap at me all weekend, love?” he asks, sighing as he places his suitcase on the bed and starts taking out his clothes and placing them inside the dresser. “That would entail me talking to you, something I don’t plan on doing,” I reply, moving past him with my bag of toiletries in hand and entering the bathroom to get my things organized.

            “And what do you suppose you’re doing now?” He asks with a smirk as he leans against the doorframe. He drives me insane, all I want to do is slap that smirk off his face. “The inevitable,” I reply, attempting to shove him out of the way when he doesn’t move from the doorframe. He doesn’t budge, opting to grab me by my upper arms instead. I try to ignore the rush of heat that courses through my body at his contact, burying whatever I feel for him in the midst of my anger instead.

            “Do you hate me now, is that it, Swan?” He asks slowly, his voice low and gruff, his eyes boring intently into mine. “I don’t hate you,” I answer, ridding myself of his grasp and pushing his torso away so I can exit the bathroom. “I’m mad at you,” I tell him, cringing at how childish I sound. “We should talk about it,” he offers, walking away from me and closing the door to our room.

            “I don’t want to,” I say, desperate to get out of the room and him out of my sight. “What do you suppose they’ll say when they see you ready to rip out my throat and don’t want to spend a second next to me, Swan?” he offers, his temper rising. “They’ll think that we’re a regular couple who have fights and are in the middle of one right now,” I offer, my voice just as rough as his.

            “We’re talking about this,” he starts, taking off his shirt and taking me by surprise, “After I shower, whether you like it or not.” _Oh, that makes more sense._

            He peels off his pants next, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enthralled by the way the hair on his chest trails down in a fine line into the underside of his black boxer-briefs. “Do you mind?” I ask exasperated, shaking my head in order to tear my gaze away from his body. A body that my own instinctively reacts to and wants desperately to feel itself against. _Get a grip, Emma._

            “Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying the view, Swan,” he offers, his voice teasing me and making my temper flare up again. I square my shoulders and turn towards him, a sickly sweet smile on my face. He looks at me knowingly, his eyebrow raised as he suggestively strokes his lower lip with his index finger. I walk up to him and stand all together too close, my body almost pressed flush against his. “You’re going to have to start paying close attention to boundaries, Killian,” I tell him, my mouth close to his ear and my nails dragging around the waistband of his boxer-briefs, “I mean it.”

            I leave him rooted on the spot, the dumbstruck expression falling off his face as I slam the door on my way out of the room.

            Electronic music thumps throughout the house as I walk down the stairs and start mingling with the guests. I can feel Graham’s eyes on me as I walk across the patio, making me hypersensitive about the length of my dress. I end up sitting next to Robin and Liam, who are discussing football—actual football, not “hand-egg,” the name they give American football—and I end up paying more attention to shoving handfuls of chips into my mouth and scrolling idly to my phone than what they’re talking about. My phone vibrates in my hand, alerting me to a text from Graham.

            _You look beautiful._

            I’m flustered, still not used to how blunt Graham is. I smile at him, perfectly aware that my chest and neck are flushed with embarrassment. I attempt to let myself be engrossed by the conversations around me, but it’s no use. My mind is racing, cluttered with all these thoughts, all these insecurities that swirl inside me like a wave rolling towards the sand, ready to break and crash against the soil, until it disperses and becomes nothing. How did I get myself into this predicament? How did I just up and decide that toying with Graham or keeping the farce I have with Killian were good ideas?

            I don’t want to unravel again. I don’t want to explode like they expect me to do. Time bomb, train wreck, wild, that’s all I’ve ever been and not what I want to continue being. I want to dig my hands through my hair, smooth it back thanks to my frustration, but it’s up in this stupid braid and it’s my job to hide the fact that I’m upset. The courtyard is incredibly crowded, and it takes me a while to make it through the throng of people and reach the bar. I order a glass of Pinot Grigio—one that I intend to nurse for the next couple of hours because, honestly, I’ve made so many horrible decisions due to the fact that I wasn’t being a responsible drinker—and make my way to the outermost corner of the patio where it’s reasonably quiet and solitary. I dig in my purse for a cigarette and a lighter, hating myself for how content I feel as I take a long drag of it. I sigh as I rest my forearms against the concrete wall that overlooks the Colorado Desert, realization hitting me that I have to cut whatever I have—or don’t have, really—with Graham, that I have to _attempt_ to forgive Killian for the way he’s been acting, and suck it up in order to land the audition for the high-budget film that I got a call-back for.

            I snuff out the cigarette as I give one final long exhale of smoke, and return to the party. I run my hands up and down my bare forearms, my temperature having dropped as the sun sank below the horizon and the desert cooled down significantly. I’m grateful for the tiki torches around the pool warming me up as I make my way back through the throng of people. The group’s attention is intently focused on Killian who is in the midst of telling an animated story. Something stops me from going further, wanting to maybe let him finish up his story—which I’ve come to recognize as a re-telling of our night in Pacific Park and the paparazzi attack that followed. The truth is that being near him is physically painful to me, the love I felt— _feel_ —for him and the idea of losing him— _not that he was ever mine to begin with—_ to Milah are thoughts that weigh heavily on me. The fact that I want something that I can’t have so much and I knowing that it’ll never be mine, makes me feel the exact location of my heart inside my ribcage, the hurt I feel is palpable and mostly, unbearable.

            “There’s my beautiful girl!” Killian exclaims, and I hope I was able to masquerade the look of intense longing on my face as I took in how the simple image of him in dark jeans, white V-neck t-shirt, and a leather jacket had me almost in a puddle on the floor. I do my best to give a genuine smile as I approach him, and for my heart not to drop to my stomach as his hands reach around my hips and his lips are suddenly pressed flush against mine. The kiss is unprecedented but not at all unwelcome. It lasts seconds at most—his lips dragging away from mine the moment my own start to reciprocate—but it feels like time stops as I relish the familiar feel of his mouth against mine. He smirks at me as he pulls away and my face instinctively follows his. His voice is condescending as he whispers against my ear, “Boundaries, Swan.” My exasperation turns into anger when I feel his hand drop lower on my back, swatting my ass before winking at me and walking away from me.

            _I hate him._

I _fucking_ hate him.

            We spend the rest of the night in battle, each of us passive aggressively trying to one up the other. When I ask him if he wants a drink from the bar I gladly go get one for him after he assents, only to decide to sit in his lap—purposely grinding my hips on his as I do so—upon my return, the satisfactory grin wide on my face as I feel his almost immediate response pressed up against me. Later, he gruffly asks me if I want to dance. I decline, but he takes me by the hand anyways and leads me to the dance floor. I nearly crumble when I feel his body pressed up against mine, his hands possessively gripping my hips, his breath hot on my neck.

            It’s a dangerous thing we’re doing, this game of cat and mouse, testing the limits of each other. I make sure to catch his eye if he’s far from me, my tongue slowly licking my lips before I bite them, my hand idly ghosting around the necklace I’m wearing—dangerously close to my neckline—the satisfaction I feel crashing in waves as I see his jaw clench and his eyes darken with lust.

            As the party drags on, everyone—including us—gets wilder. We are no longer outside, opting to sit in a darkened room when Will breaks out his vaporizer. The small group of people, Killian and myself included, take hits from it and pass it around. The second time Killian inhales from it, he takes my face in his hands and instead of handing me the vaporizer, he leans his face towards mine and shotguns the smoke into my mouth. I exhale the smoke he had blown into my mouth, my knees weak with the degree of _want_ that had started to boil deep inside me.

            I need to leave as soon as possible before I do something stupid like, oh I don’t know, ride him on this couch. He has a family, he has a kid, and most importantly he’s playing with me. I stand without saying a word and make my way out of the room, not caring if he follows me or not.

            He doesn’t and I’m glad.

            I take a shower to clear my head, the almost scalding water acting like a purifier. I want to wash him off of me, his lips against mine, his breath against my neck, his hands gripping my hips. I scrub my skin raw and don’t step out of the tub until I feel like I’ve washed every trace of him off of my body. I stand in front of the mirror, letting the steam swirl around me as I comb my hair out. My eyes, the tip of nose and cheeks are flushed pink from letting tears fall freely as I showered. I see the hurt etched clearly on my face, my hair a limp frame around my face, the vessels in my retinas bright red and clearly marked, and my mouth pressed in a thin line—a frown so deep set that I have no idea how to fix. I love him, but I don’t have to like him right now.

            Hell, I don’t even like myself right now.

            I struggle with falling asleep once I settle in bed, my mind loitering between conscious and unconscious for hours, or so it seems. It’s only when I’m nearing some semblance of sleep that I hear Killian stumble into the room, clearly intoxicated from what I can hear, and I pretend to be fully asleep. The bed thumps as he walks into it, a string of curses being whispered in the aftermath. I hear the clump of boots hitting the ground and the rustle of fabric, unmistakably alerting me to him peeling off his layers of clothing—first the jacket, then the shirt, and finally the jeans. I try to level my breathing as he stumbles away from the bed and into the bathroom where the shower is again blasting full steam. He’s in there for a while, and I’m still very hypersensitive to what’s going on around me. When he gets out of the shower and makes his way back into the bedroom, I try to level my breathing again, steady my heart, as I feel his weight on the mattress. “Emma, are you awake?” he slurs next to me, his voice grave and slightly disoriented. I stay quiet, trying to seem as peaceful as possible even though my heart threatens to beat out of my body. I groan sleepily, acting as if his voice had some effect on me but not enough to wake me up. I roll on my tummy, my hands buried under the cool pillows—a better position to fake my way through this.

            I try not to tense as I feel his fingers trail through my hair, tucking unruly strands of curls behind my ear. “I really mucked things up with you, didn’t I?” he asks again, his voice sad and pensive. “I’m sorry about everything,” he continues, his fingers still threaded in my hair, stroking it lightly, “I’m sorry about how I reacted at my apartment and how I treated you tonight,” he finishes before rolling on his back and sighing deeply.

            “I miss you,” he says after a few moments of silence, “I miss waking up to you, your laugh, riling you up until your furious with me.” I hear him roll back towards me, his fingers now gliding down my back, so gently I can barely feel them, “I miss being one with you.” His fingers stop once they reach the sheet, his body plopping back onto the mattress, his fingers threaded through his hair in exasperation.

            “Everything is shite, Em,” he says again, “everything with Milah is shite.” I want to reach over and hug him close to me, the sadness in his voice eliciting in me this unstoppable urge to protect him, to kiss away the hurt. “She’s not the love of my life anymore,” he says quietly and my heart leaps into my throat, my nerves making me unravel, “when you said you might be seeing someone, I swear I saw red, Emma. I wanted to kill the bloody bastard for taking what’s mine.” I want to kiss him, I want to stop pretending that I’m asleep and throw myself in his arms and hug him close to me. I want to be one with him again because I miss him more than I’ve ever missed anyone in my life. “I’ve been so blind, Emma. My sweet, darling, beautiful, Emma,” his voice is sleepy now, his words muddling themselves with the yawns that grow increasingly more frequent with each passing moment. “If you think that you’re the one that needs me, love, you’re sorely mistaken,” he says a hiccup-yawn combination popping in the middle of his sentence—something I shouldn’t find endearing, but I do. His movements are heavy and lazy as he reaches up to kiss the side of my head, his forehead pressed against it. “I’m the one that has needed you, I love you,” he whispers before his head thuds back onto the pillow and sleep overpowers him.

            He’s fast asleep when I awake the next day, sunlight streaming in through the sheer curtains. It takes me a second to remember all that he told me last night—and I pray that he remembers all of it today—grinning madly, I kiss him on the side of his cheek. He smiles in his sleep. I bite my lip and resolve to go to the bathroom and fix how I look, brush my teeth and comb my hair—I may or may not have put on some mascara and a dab of lip gloss, but that’s neither here nor there.

            I scurry back to bed fully aware that I am acting like a teenager—but I don’t care because he loves me—and kiss him on the lips this time. Slowly, they start moving against mine, his eyes the last to open. When they do open, there’s sheer surprise in them and he breaks away from me.

            “Swan, what are you doing?” he asks groggily and I bite my lip. “I heard what you said last night,” I start averting my eyes from his, focusing instead on how my fingers fidgeted with the hem of my shirt, “and I thought I should tell you that I love you, too.” I take a deep breath and I look back up at him, his shocked face quickly turning into one that showcased sheer happiness. He leans forward, his hands nestled in my hair, and crashes his lips to mine. We pour everything into it, our bodies pressed so tight, we might as well fuse them together. My skin reacts instinctively to the way he starts to press kisses against my cheek, my jaw, my neck and my collarbone. The familiar heat coils deep in my belly, wanting faster, wanting more. He senses it and presses me back onto the pillow, practically tearing the shirt I have on from me. Fervently, he places open-mouthed kisses all over my exposed skin. “I love you,” he whispers against me and he almost seems crazed, like a man that had been depraved far too long of the one thing he needed most in life.

            And to Killian, that just happened to be me.

            He traces kisses all over my body, stopping at the spots he knows drive me wild. He spends ample time on my breasts, flicking and biting my nipples as his fingers worked fervently inside of me. My body arches to his touch and I moan loudly, an orgasm threatening to make me collapse at any moment. He senses this and releases me, the detachment positively torturous. He chuckles as he sees me pout, his lips quickly kissing me in recompense before he dips down and settles them on my center instead. He teases me, licking a long stripe against my skin, making me grab the sheets around me for support. I buck my hips up, egging him to get on with it, but he doesn’t. Instead, agonizingly slow, he kisses the insides of my thighs, biting and sucking and leaving bruises on my skin. “ _Killian_ ,” I groan exasperatedly, having half a mind to lock my ankles behind his head and pull him towards me. “Yes, love?” he asks innocently, though juxtaposed with a devilish smirk on his face. “ _Get on with it_ ,” I say through gritted teeth.

            He grins and bites the sensitive bruise he had just left on my thigh, instead. “Get on with what?” I groan again and refuse to answer, simply locking my ankles behind his head and pulling him forward, making my sentiments known. He glares at me, but obliges, his revenge being working fervently against me—lapping, biting, fingering, the works—and just when I’m at the verge of climaxing, he dials it down to a painfully slow pace, my orgasm basically disappearing from sight. “ _I’m going to kill you, Killian Jones_ ,” I mutter after the third time he does it, and all I’m met with is a gleeful gaze staring back at me.

            He comes back up to face me, his forearms—gorgeous things that they are—on either side of my face as he dips down to kiss me. I can taste myself on his lips and desire surges through me again, wanting faster, wanting more. He takes off his shirt first—leaving his hair messy and standing up on all sides—and then his boxers. I smile contently at the familiar sight before me and when he slides into me all I can think about is how much I actually missed Killian. Killian kissing me, Killian moving inside me, Killian pinning my hands above my head, his fingers laced with mine. I missed the way he would thrust deep inside me, my legs hung on either one of his shoulders, his lips alternating between kissing and biting my calves. It’s incredible, the way he feels inside me, and the way the familiar warmth starts bubbling in my abdomen, the desire reaching its fullest peak. He nods against my shoulder as my walls start clenching around him, bringing us both over the edge, together.

            “Good morning,” he says between panting breaths as he lies next to me, little beads of sweat on his hairline. “Good morning,” I say as I turn to him, my grin matching the one on his face. We stay quiet, the only noise in the room that of the whirring fan on top of us and our struggle to calm down our breathing. I want to ask him, ‘what now?’ desperate to know what we are, what this means, what about Milah.

            “Come on tour with me,” he says, bringing our hands up to his lips and kissing the top of mine.

            “I was always going to go with you,” I reply and he grins wider, if possible. “I might have to cut it short though,” I add as an afterthought.

            “Why?” he asks, his eyebrows knit together in disappointment. “I may be filming a movie by the end of the summer,” I say, biting my lip as his eyes widen in amazement.

            “You’ve got the part?” he asks excitedly. “Not yet, just a call-back, but I’m pretty confident it’s as good as mine,” I reply and in one swift movement he rolls me on top of him and he’s kissing me again. “That’s incredible, love,” he tells me.

            We have sex again and spend the day in bed until we’re kicked out by our managers and are told to get ready for tonight. Tink, my stylist, ends up dipping the ends of my long blonde hair in teal dye. She dresses me in a black romper with a cutout in the middle, matching black espadrilles, and places a crown of flowers on my head.

            _I feel ridiculous._

            That night as the boys finished playing their set, Killian brings me out on stage in front of god knows how many people, and kisses me in front of them. It feels surreal and in a way ominous. I’m both incredibly happy and terrified that this time will be like the last, and every other time before that. I fear that this happy bubble that Killian and I have made for the other will burst at any given time. We have negativity coming from every angle, problems staring at us from every direction, so many things can go wrong.

            “What now?” I manage to ask him that night, our legs tangled with each other’s, my chin resting atop his bare chest. “What do you mean?” he asks, his lips against my forehead, his fingers threading through my now teal hear. “What happens now with everything? Milah, Peter?” _Graham_ , I want to add.

            “We just take it one day at a time, love. Together.” He kisses me reassuringly, and I can’t help but to think that maybe Coachella isn’t that bad after all.

 

 

 


End file.
